Creative Writing
For Advanced College Classes
REVISED EDITION
by
GEORGE G. WILLIAMS
The Rice Institute
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
New York
CREATIVE WRITING FOR ADVANCED COLLEGE CLASSES, REVISED EDITION
Copyright, 1935, 1954, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
All rights in this book are reserved.
No part of the book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written per-
mission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews. For
information address Harper & Brothers
49 East 33rd Street, New York 16, N. Y.
E-B
Library of Congress catalog card number: 54-7330
Dedicated to Virginia M. Williams
Contents
PDF
Preface to the First Edition xi
Preface to the Revised Edition xv
PART ONE: Writing
I. FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES 3
1. The End Position. 2. Suspense. 3. Climax. 4.
Proportion. 5. Structure. 6. Repetition. 7. Con-
trast. 8. Interest. Exercises
II. RATIONALITY IN STYLE 42
1. Control. 2. Structure. 3. Position. 4. Conti-
nuity. Exercises
III. VIGOR IN STYLE 61
1. Intellectual Vigor. 2. Emotional Vigor. Exer-
cises
IV. VIGOR IN STYLE (Continued) 82
3. Vigor of Wording. Exercises
V. BEAUTY OF STYLE 107
1. Pure Sounds. 2. Patterned Sounds. 3. Rhythm.
Exercises. General Exercises on Style
VI. PERSONALITY IN STYLE 133
1. Intellectual Personality. 2. Emotional Person-
ality
VII. IMAGERY 137
1. Art. 2. Kinds of Images. 3. Imaginative Words.
4. Imaginative Details. 5. Imaginative Construc-
tion. 6. Interpretative Description. Exercises
PART Two: The Writing of Exposition
VIII. THE NATURE OF EXPOSITION 165
1. Definition. 2. The Field of Exposition. 3. The
Vll
viii Contents
Uses of Exposition. 4. The Requirements of Ex-
position. 5. The Sources of Exposition. Exercises
IX. THE TYPES OF EXPOSITION 180
i. The Familiar Essay
n. Exposition of Events
1. Diaries and Journals. 2. History. 3. Biogra-
phy. 4. Anecdote. 5. True-Experience Narra-
tive. 6. Narrative of Travel. 7. News Story
in. Exposition of Facts
1. Definition. 2. Descriptive Exposition. 3. Ex-
position of a Process
rv. Exposition of Opinion
1. Exposition of Opinions about General Laws.
2. Exposition of Opinions about Specific Condi-
tions, Facts, or Things. Exercises
X. THE METHODS OF EXPOSITION 203
1. Chronological Method. 2. Descriptive Method.
3. Method of Classification. 4. Definition. 5.
Comparison and Contrast. 6. Analogy. 7. Presen-
tation of Authority. 8. Method of Illustration.
9. Use of Examples. 10. Use of Details. 11.
Method of Repetition. 12. Cause-and-Effect Re-
lationship. Exercises
XI. ARGUMENTATION 221
1. The Fallacy of Rationalization. 2. Fallacies
Due to Diction. 3. Inference. 4. Fallacies of the
Inductive Method. 5. Fallacies of the Deductive
Method. 6. Fallacies of Inclusion. 7. Fallacies
of Confusion. 8. Fallacies of the Cause-and-Effect
Relationship. 9. Fallacies of Evidence. Exercises
XII. WRITING THE EXPOSITION 246
1. The Subject. 2. Aims. 3. The Title. 4. The
Introduction. 5. The Arrangement of Ideas. 6.
Division. 7. Persuasion. 8. Some Stratagems.
Exercises
Contents tx
PART THREE: The Writing of Fiction
XIII. THE NATURE OF FICTION 265
I. Imagination and Fiction
1. What is Fiction? 2. Imaginative Narrative. 3.
Drama
ii. Truth in Fiction
1. Historical Truth and Poetic Truth. 2. Improb-
ability in Fiction. 3. Chance and Coincidence. 4.
Surprise. Exercises
XIV. TYPES OF FICTION 277
i. The Story
1. Broad Types. 2. Special Types
H. The Novel
1. Broad Types. 2. Special Types. Exercises
XV. THE WRITER'S APPROACH 289
i. The Writer as a Person
1. Egotism. 2. Humility. 3. Character
ii. The Writer's State of Mind
1. De-education. 2. Feeling. 3. Thought. 4. Im-
agination
ra. Cultivation of Values
1. Feeling. 2. Observation. 3. People. 4. Infor-
mation. 5. Ideas. 6. Delight. 7. In Conclusion.
Exercises
XVI. THE SUBSTANCE OF FICTION 309
1. Feeling. 2. Subject. 3. Theme. 4. Characters.
5. Background. 6. Information. 7. Change. 8.
Straight Narrative or Obstructed Narrative. 9.
Quest and Conflict. 10. Plot. 11. Complications.
Exercises
XVII. COMPOSING THE NARRATIVE 330
1. Two Methods of Composing. 2. Starting from
a Feeling. 3. Starting from a Theme. 4. Starting
from Background. Exercises
XVIII. COMPOSING THE NARRATIVE (Continued) 338
5. Starting from Character. 6. Starting from Situ-
ation. 7. Starting from Incident. 8. Starting from
x Contents
a Complete Story Idea. 9. The Actual Start. 10.
Ending the Narrative. Exercises
XIX. WRITING THE NARRATIVE 350
i. Some Preliminary Decisions
1. Length. 2. Quantities in Fiction. 3. Style. 4.
Point of View. 5. Symbolism
n. The Beginning and the Ending
1. Exposition. 2. The First Sentences. 3. The
Last Sentences
in. The Body of the Narrative -
1. Suspense. 2. Creating Characters. 3. Portray-
ing Characters. 4. Creating a Background
rv. Incidentals
1. Dialogue. 2. Titles. 3. Humor. 4. Prepara-
tion of Manuscripts. Exercises
APPENDIX 389
INDEX OF PROPER NAMES 401
INDEX OF SUBJECTS 408
Preface to the First Edition
One can think of a dozen helpful and beautifully written books on
English style by masters of the English language; but unfortunately
none of them is suitable in method or in purpose for use in the
average college classroom. On the other hand, one can think of a
hundred excellent and really indispensable handbooks of English
grammar, English usage, and English rhetoric; but unfortunately
none of them is of much value to people aspiring to literary levels
higher than those of mere clarity and correctness. The first kind must
always be the study and delight of mature writers; the second kind,
the study if not the delight of immature writers. But one can hardly
recall a textbook of composition written exclusively for people in
the intermediate stage between immaturity and maturity.
This book is intended to supply the lack; it is written for people
who know most of what is to be learned from the handbooks, but
who do not yet know how to create literature.
The book consists of three parts. Part I is a discussion of certain
principles which apply to creative writing of any sort. Part II is a
discussion of principles which apply to exposition; and Part III, of
principles which apply to fiction. This work is, therefore, both a gen-
eralized study of the methods of creative writing, and a particular-
ized study of the most important types of creative writing.
It has been in the author's mind that Part I and the first three
chapters of Part II should fill the needs of the first semester in a full
year-course in advanced writing, and that the rest of the book
should fill the needs of the second semester. Yet all the parts are so
independent of one another that any part could serve as a text for
a course lasting only one term; and at the same time, other parts
could serve as private study for individuals interested in writing for
other purposes than the attainment of a college credit.
All but two or three of the sets of Exercises in the volume are
xi
Preface to the First Edition
creative rather than critical. That is, they demand that the student
produce something from his own mind or imagination, instead of
merely examining and appreciating what others have written. Many
more Exercises are included than can possibly be completed in a
year. But it was thought that a superfluity which would allow both
the instructor and the student wide liberty of choice would be
preferable to a paucity which would force both the instructor and
the student into deadening formalism.
And now about the point of view from which the book is written.
Though the author believes that no important point discussed in the
average correspondence course for professional fiction writers has
been omitted from this book, the author's purpose has not been to
discuss writing from the professional viewpoint. On the other hand,
everything said in this book may be of real value to the student who
intends to become a professional. The only difference, consequently,
between this book and the books for professionals is in the spirit of
approach.
Writing ( the author believes ) is valuable for its own sake. Every
individual feels passing through him during every waking hour a
thousand half -comprehended ideas, half-created characters, half -felt
emotions, half-seen visions, half-heard melodies of language, half-
constructed fabrics of fancy. The non-writing person allows all these
to pass unheeded through the hazy background of his consciousness,
and to be lost at last in a welter of immediate desires, common sen-
sations, and material expediencies. But the writer clutches at them,
halts their flight, and contemplates them until they materialize into
the permanent actuality of words on paper; In doing this, the writer
has transformed immateriality into materiality, the transitory into
the enduring, the subconscious into the conscious, and the illusory
into the real. And in doing this, the writer creates for himself the
value of a stable, indubitable, and complete experience of mind and
heart, where before there had existed only a drifting, dim, and em-
bryonic vision.
Writing, then, is not to be regarded as a mere means of making
a living, or even of transferring ideas from one person to another.
Writing is a means by which the individual grows by which he
Preface to the First Edition xm
passes intellectually and spiritually from a realm of nebulous sug-
gestion into a realm of valid experience. Accordingly, writing may
be a direct instrument of education where education is conceived
as a means whereby the individual realizes his highest intellectual
and spiritual potentialities. Every piece of original writing com-
pleted adds to the personality of the writer some intellectual or
spiritual reality which was not there previously; and every piece
done as well as it possibly can be done adds a still finer intellectual
or spiritual reality.
Since writing can have for the student a very real educative value,
an educational institution such as a college ought to look on writing
as an instrument of education primarily, and as a contemplated pro-
fession for the college student only secondarily. At any rate, the
author of this book looks upon writing in such a way, and has ap-
proached his task in the spirit of an educator rather than in the spirit
of a professional literary adviser.
I should be more than ungrateful if I did not acknowledge my
indebtedness for many ideas to such authors as Sir Walter Raleigh,
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, President William Trufant Foster, Pro-
fessor Brander Matthews, and Messrs. William Archer, Clayton
Hamilton, and Joseph Wood Krutch. I am indebted also to many
publishers through whose generosity I have been able to use copy-
righted material in illustrative passages throughout this book. More
specific acknowledgments to these publishers are made at proper
places in the text itself.
GEORGE G. WILLIAMS
Preface to the Revised Edition
The first edition of Creative Writing was written twenty years ago
by a young man. The revised edition has been written by a middle-
aged man. The revised edition ought to be a better book; that is to
say, the author ought to have learned something in twenty years.
He hopes he has. He hopes this revised edition shows the results of
twenty additional years of living, of learning, of teaching, and of
writing.
It must be confessed that the middle-aged man has been keenly
interested in watching himself at work on the young man's book.
The middle-aged man has found, strangely, that the young man was
more conservative than he. For example, the young man's book did
not officially recognize Thomas Wolfe, John Dos Passes, Ernest
Hemingway, James Joyce, or Virginia Woolf, and their contribu-
tions to English style. The older man is more liberal. For though he
is still firm in the opinion that the student writer's best teachers are
Defoe, Swift, Fielding, Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, Hardy, Conrad,
Galsworthy, Hawthorne, Poe, and James, he thinks that some of the
more recent writers are indispensable too. Neither the old writing
nor the new is sufficient; both are essential.
Another fault ( as it seems now to the older man ) that the young
man had was a certain authoritarianism and arbitrariness. He knew
precisely what was right and what was wrong and that was that!
The older man sees the world in less stark lights and shadows; he,
thinks writing is governed by some extremely subtle and complex
laws. If, in trying to express these laws in the revised edition, the
older man has made the book a little more complex, and even a
little more difficult, he cannot help it.
Revising the book has been not only an experience in self-
criticism, but also a rather sad lesson in the transitoriness of human
XV
xvi Preface to the Revised Edition
institutions and human fame. The Depression loomed large in the
1930's, and the social and political phenomena accompanying it
seemed so permanent that references to them were made as casually
as references to the sun and the moon. Moreover, names familiar to
every freshman then (Joffre, Arthur Brisbane, Rollo Brown, Elsie
Robinson, Octavus Roy Cohen, Frank Colby, among others ) would
be meaningless to most modern college seniors. What now seems to
be one of the most astounding remarks in the previous edition was
that the historical novel is no longer popular! But that was written
before Anthony Adverse and Gone with the Wind altered the his-
tory of fiction.
The really major changes in this revised edition, however, have
not been made because of either the young man's errors twenty
years ago, or developments in the world at large. All in all, the older
man is not ashamed of what the younger man did is rather proud
of it, to tell the truth. The really major changes are due to the fact
that, in twenty years, a man does not necessarily learn better, but he
learns more. This book is both a bigger book and a richer book than
the other; it contains much that was not even mentioned in the early
book, and it augments much that was discussed there.
Some actual statistics may be interesting. The older book con-
tained 100 sections; this one contains 133. Though about half of the
old sections remain substantially as they were, only about a dozen
of them remain unaltered in any way. Only one of the old sets of
Exercises at the ends of chapters remains unchanged; seven others
remain substantially as they were; all the others have been changed;
and several new ones have been added.
The long and very important first chapter of the book has been
almost completely rewritten; so has the chapter on Argumentation.
All the other chapters in the first two parts of the book have been
extensively revised in the interest of clarity, brevity, or complete-
ness. But the main revision has been in the last part "The Writing
of Fiction/' Ninety per cent of this part is new.
Throughout the revised edition the writer's intention has been to
polish the expression, to clarify the exposition, to excise unessentials,
to widen the coverage, to improve the Exercises, and, above all, to
Preface to the Revised Edition xvii
bring the discussion of fiction into line with modern ideals and
realities.
The writer would like to take this occasion to thank the many
teachers of writing in hundreds of American colleges and universi-
ties who have used the old edition of this book during the last
twenty years. He is grateful to them; and he has tried to show his
gratitude by working hard to make this revised edition a better book
than the old one.
GEORGE G. WILLIAMS
The Rice Institute
January, 1954
PART ONE
Writing
CHAPTER
Fundamental Principles
First, a word of advice about the most fundamental principle of
all. Students often enter writing courses with the illusion that they
require nothing more than a driving urge and an undetermined
amount of inspiration in order to create quite acceptable articles,
stories, plays, and novels. It is true that both an urge and an in-
spiration are essential. But they are not enough. A person may have
an urge to heal the sick, another to impart knowledge, or a third
to defend the unfortunate, and all three may have a considerable
amount of inspiration. But a physician who has not undergone a
very thorough and painstaking training is a quack, a teacher who
has never studied is a charlatan, and a lawyer who has never read
law is a shyster. Likewise, a writer who has not thoroughly studied
the art he professes to practice is on the way to ending as a mere
hack.
Most of the great writers of the past, you will say, never took a
college course in advanced writing and didn't they do all right by
themselves? To be sure. They never took a college course in ad-
vanced writing, but they learned independently all that such a
course contains and more, too. All great writers have studied their
art intensively, and have had a consuming interest, theoretical as
well as practical, in it all their lives. Indeed, scores of them (from
Sir Philip Sidney and Ben Jonson right down to Thomas Hardy,
Henry James, John Galsworthy, Arnold Bennett, Ellen Glasgow, and
T. S. Eliot) have written extensively on the techniques and princi-
ples of writing. A college course in advanced writing is only a short
cut to what a writer must learn for himself in any event. It conveys
in a few months what a self-educating writer must take years to
learn. The present writer remembers making to Joyce Gary, the
4 Creative Writing
celebrated English novelist, one of those deprecating and insincere
remarks that people do make about their own professions: "After
all, one can't really teach people how to write." Mr. Gary pounced
upon the remark immediately. "Oh, yes one can!" he exclaimed, and
then proceeded to give the author a brief and persuasive lecture on
the value of college courses in writing!
But if a student is going to be taught how to write, he must be
willing to learn how to write. He must resolve to learn techniques
and principles just as a surgeon, no matter how gifted he may be,
must learn to tie knots, or an English teacher must learn the differ-
ence between a verb and a noun, or a lawyer must learn the minutiae
of legal forms and court procedure.
The present writer once had a student who, after hearing lengthy
and probably tiresome counsel about the details of sentence
formation and compositional structure, asked a bit indulgently,
like a person who has consented to be deceived by a ventriloquist:
"But surely you don't expect us to go to all that trouble with our
writing?" The answer is an emphatic Yes. There is no other way
to be a good writer. Furthermore, as a matter of plain fact, it is in
the practice of the actual art ( or, if one prefers, the craft ) of writing
that the writer avoids succumbing eventually to the boredom of his
work, and giving it up for the more interesting employment of selling
hosiery. His enjoyment, like the enjoyment of a painter, a sculptor,
a dancer, a singer, or an actor, derives chiefly from the processes
of his art from the planning, the constructing, the joining, the
polishing, the exercise of skill, the conquest of problems arising with
every sentence, the dexterous juggling of all the elements that go to
make good writing: words, sentences, sounds, associations, ideas,
arrangements, spaces, divisions, continuity, suppressions, intensifica-
tions, and all the rest. Anyone who hopes or expects to write a great
deal in his life must learn as much as he can about his art all its
methods, devices, and even tricks and then try to apply it to every
word, phrase, clause, and sentence that he writes. That is the only
way in which he can endure to be a confirmed writer. When he has
done this, writing will not be something to be avoided, but some-
thing eternally seductive and irresistible.
Fundamental Principles 5
Much of this and the next few chapters is devoted to the structure
of sentences. The student who has his eye on the far goal of articles,
stories, plays, and novels must not scorn sentences any more than
the golfer aiming at the green far away can afford to scorn the
precise position of every finger on the club, the bend of the back,
the position of the head, and the rhythm of the swing. Like threads
of different colors fed into a loom, sentence elements will rush into
the writer's mind not to be jumbled together by chance, and to
emerge as a formless collection of words, phrases, clauses, and
sentences but to be assorted, assembled, and re-assembled, and
to emerge as an attractive and original pattern, the most attractive
and original pattern possible. The writer must consider every sen-
tence a special problem, and must experiment with it, cast it and
recast it in his mind or on paper, take time, consider it as a solitary
unit and as a part of the whole, return to it again and again if neces-
sary, and leave it at last only when he is thoroughly satisfied. Yes,
the teacher of writing does expect his students to "go to all that
trouble/'
The present chapter recapitulates a few very old principles of
composition. Doubtless the reader has heard them time and time
again. A thing worth saying once, however, is worth saying more
than once. The constant reiteration of these principles in books
about writing indicates their importance.
1. THE END POSITION. The most important word or idea in a sen-
tence, a paragraph, or a whole composition should come at the end.
Because readers are always more than usually alert when they
know that a conclusion approagjies^a writer should use his most
vigorous and telling details last. Not only are readers psychologically
conditioned to waking up and fixing their attention near the end
of a piece of writing, but also they are conditioned by modern habits
of composition and publication. Nowadays, readers of scientific
articles turn almost automatically to the end of the articles to learn
the main pointy readers of modern poems expect the last line to
be the key-line; readers of modern stories look to the last few sen-
tences for clarification of some emotional or philosophical implica-
tion in the narrative. It is true that requirements of clarity, coherence,
6 Creative Writing
or euphony sometimes prevent strict application of this principle;
and once in a while the writer will deliberately flout the principle
for the sake of variety, or in order to have a weak or falling close
that will be consistent with a certain mood. Nevertheless, the prin-
ciple is sound; a writer should avoid having his sentences, his para-
graphs, his chapters, or his articles and stories dwindle off into final
insignificance.
a. In Sentence Elements. As a rule, weakly subordinate or paren-
thetical elements in a sentence should not come last. For example,
the sentence just written, as well as the present sentence, would
be intolerable if "as a rule" or "for example" came at the end. A
very common offender of this law is the participial phrase dragging
along at the end, as in the sentence, "These handsome birds are
quite numerous on the coast, gathering often in groups of fifty to a
hundred." This sentence runs downhill from the main clause. It
would be better if it ran uphill; the participial phrase should come
first. Dependent clauses, being less structurally weak than participial
phrases, may often come last. Yet sentences like, "We could hear
him shouting though we could not see him," and, "You will want to
set down your impressions on paper as soon as you possibly can,"
would be stronger with the dependent clause at the beginning in-
stead of the end. Both these sentences offend in another way: except
for "possibly," the last four or five words in both are completely
colorless. Placing the dependent clauses at the beginning would
have, therefore, an additional virtue; it would make the sentences
end with stronger words. Just to illustrate a typical process of sen-
tence-forming, suppose we experiment a little further with the sec-
ond sentence quoted.
Even with the dependent clause at the beginning, the sentence
would end with an insignificant prepositional phrase far removed
from the word it modifies. Placing the phrase nearer the word it
modifies would make it sound a little awkward: "You will want to
set down on paper your impressions." Perhaps, then, we could let the
phrase remain where it is, or perhaps we could change the wording
slightly to make the entire sentence read: "As soon as you possibly
can, you will write down your impressions." But whatever we decide
Fundamental Principles 7
to do with the sentence, we ought not to be content with it until we
have tested it in all its possible forms. Slapping a sentence down
just as it comes to us, and leaving it that way, may chance to result
in a good sentence, but more probably it will result in a dull, weak
sentence.
b. In Larger Elements. Paragraphs, sections, chapters, and whole
compositions may not invariably lend themselves to application of
the present principle. Logical, chronological, or transitional con-
siderations take precedence, and may interfere. Nevertheless, a
writer should do what he can to apply the principle, and at least
he can keep from violating it too flagrantly. For example, he will
avoid having mere transitional sentences at the end of a paragraph;
he will place them at the beginning of the next paragraph, or will
reserve them for entirely separate paragraphs. He will not ramble
on, saying nothing much, at the end of a chapter or a section after
he has already made his point. He will not suddenly toss into the
conclusion of his work some mere statement or suggestion of a new
idea that he does not have time to develop properly. He will not
use so much of his allotted space in developing minor ideas in the
first part of a paper that he is compelled to rush through and in-
adequately develop the ideas in the latter part of the paper. To
speak positively instead of negatively: (1) he will arrange his de-
tails, examples, or ideas in paragraph, section, chapter, or whole
composition so that the most important and incontrovertible comes
last; or ( 2 ) he may round out his discussion by a renewed statement
of the main idea or point; or (3) he may bluntly summarize the
matters he has discussed or the points he has made.
2. SUSPENSE. An important idea hinted at in the beginning but
reserved for the end makes for suspense.
Suspense in writing as in life is created by three things: a hint, a
wait, and a fulfillment. The hint may be either an open statement or
a vague suggestion that something important will presently happen;
or it may be a situation that, in its very nature, is certain to result
in an important outcome like a war, or a serious illness, or the
approach of final examinations. Suspense catches the reader's at-
tention, and then holds his interest by the implicit promise of an
8 Creative Writing
impending result of some significance. Suspense is often that un-
suspected quality that makes some writing vivid and nervous instead
of dull and weak. Suspense is the opposite of surprise, and is a more
effective instrument; for surprise lasts but an instant, does not hold
the reader for more than a minute or two, and immediately becomes
only a memory whereas suspense may last, and hold the reader's
intense interest, throughout even the hours or days required for the
reading of a long novel.
The principle of building up suspense by withholding an impor-
tant idea to the end is allied to the first principle discussed above.
But the two principles differ materially; the first one does not require
the initial hint, but this one does. For example, the following sen-
tence creates no suspense even though it places the important idea
at the end: "The Essay on Man is Pope's most philosophic work;
The Rape of the Lock is his most poetic/' In contrast, the following
sentence creates excellent suspense: "Pope's most poetic work is
neither the philosophic Essay on Man, nor the descriptive Windsor
Forest, nor the satirical Dunciad but The Rape of the Lock."
a. In Sentence Elements. The sentence just quoted creates sus-
pense by means of a series of negatives implying that a positive will
appear shortly. Sometimes suspense may be created by means of
a series of items obviously moving toward a climax, as in the follow-
ing sentence: "He longed for an education; he made plans to obtain
one; he saved his money; he sacrificed his pleasures; he endured
privations and then, at the age of twenty, he was killed in Korea/*
In such a sentence, suspense builds up as each clause succeeds an-
other. Sometimes a mere periodic sentence creates suspense; thus, a
sentence like, "The speeding automobile whirled around the corner
on two wheels^ and with a terrifying scream of rubber tires on pave-
ment," is much less suspenseful than this: "On two wheels, and with
a terrifying scream of rubber tires on pavement, the speeding auto-
mobile whirled around the corner/' We might include most, or all,
of these devices under a heading like lengthy suspended grammati-
cal structure. Shelley's famous conclusion of Prometheus Unbound
is a perfect model for this kind of suspense:
Fundamental Principles 9
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.
b. In Larger Elements. Many devices for creating suspense, es-
pecially in narrative writing, could be mentioned, and some will be
discussed at length in the third part of this book. Two or three
elementary devices are worth a few words here. A writer may create
suspense by a definite statement that something very important is
to be said later on like this: "In the story that follows, I shall tell
you how John Jones died, and then returned to life/' Or like this:
"After we have examined and discarded some patently false solu-
tions of our problem, I shall tell you what seems to me the only true
and satisfactory solution." Such advance notices make the reader
know for certain that he is waiting for something important; they
put him in a state of suspense.
Sometimes the mere brief enumeration of topics the writer intends
to discuss will make the reader aware that he is waiting for some-
thing important. For example, a writer might say, "In this paper I
wish to discuss, first, the historical background of our present diffi-
culty; next, the immediate reasons why the difficulty has suddenly
grown so tremendous; and finally, the most practicable means by
which we can extricate ourselves from the difficulty/' A statement
like this creates an almost unconscious, but genuine, suspense in the
reader. Even a bare statement such as, "I wish to discuss three points
in this paper," will keep the reader alert and forward-looking through
Points One and Two. All that is required for suspense is a hint, a
wait, and a fulfillment.
A well-matched conflict always makes for suspense. Even when
the main purpose of a writer is not to attack anybody else's doctrines,
10 Creative Writing
bi to give new information or to elucidate an original idea, the
writer may often profit by deliberately creating a conflict at the
beginning of his exposition. He may do this by referring to mistakes
that other people have made, or by outlining opinions with which he
says he differs.
3. CLIMAX. Details, examples, and ideas should be arranged in
the order of climax.
The order of climax is the order of steadily increasing importance.
This principle applies to a series of related or roughly parallel items
that are usually three or more in number. The items may be details
of a description or exposition, examples and illustrations of an ex-
position or argument, or lists of causes, effects, and reasons. The
principle demands that the least important of these be presented
first, the next most important next, and the most important of all
last. As in the old family portrait, the order of composition should
be the stairstep order beginning with insignificant two-year-old
Willie, and ascending head over head to the supreme head of
William, Senior.
a. In Sentence Elements. This principle applies to words,
phrases, and clauses within a sentence. Thus, Burke wrote of "regi-
cide, parricide, and sacrilege"; the words would have a very different
tone if they were arranged as "sacrilege, parricide, and regicide."
Lee's famous characterization of Washington "First in war, first in
peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen" proceeding as it does
from point to point in order of climax, is a skillful expression of a
fine thought. But read in the reverse order, it becomes merely taw-
dry. These examples of words and phrases illustrate a principle that
should be carried over (where logic, chronology, and coherence
permit) to clauses and clusters of sentences. It should be stressed
here that the writer himself has the responsibility of determining
the relative importance of his various items, and of arranging them
according to his own standards. Burke's series of words quoted above
are arranged as a religious man and a lover of political freedom
would arrange them; a fanatical royalist would have reversed the
order. The point is that ideas do not necessarily impose a certain
Fundamental Principles 11
form of expression on the writer; the writer imposes the f orr^ on
the ideas.
Sometimes, as has already been hinted, a writer must disregard
the order of climax. Logic, chronology, and coherence come first.
Euphony is another consideration, as in a series like "God, home,
and native land," where the reverse order would be almost a tongue-
twister. Or sometimes subtle considerations of courtesy or prece-
dence (particularly in phrases originating long ago in times when
precedence was more important than today) determine the order
as in "king, queen, and nobles," or "men, women, and children."
It is quite possible that the last word in the series "love, honor, and
obey" would not have been struck from the modern marriage ritual
had it not stood out so prominently by being last!
b. In Larger Elements. Where other considerations are not in-
volved, the principle of climax should apply to sentences within a
paragraph, to paragraphs within a part, and to major parts within
a whole composition.
Some of the old popular ballads, with their device of "incremental
repetition," perfectly illustrate this principle. In "Edward," for ex-
ample, successive stanzas have the hero saying, first, that he has
killed his hawk, then that he has killed his horse, and last that he has
killed his father. Or consider a paragraph from Sir John Mandeville's
Travels (ca. 1400). The first sentence in his first paragraph about
the land of Prester John mentions a sea of sand and gravel; the next
asserts that this sea has waves and tides; the next that the sea is
bordered by mysterious lands unknown to man; and the last that
the sea, though it has no water, has "plenty of good fishes." Here
each marvel is more marvelous than the preceding.
In the whole group of paragraphs describing the land of Prester
John, the order of climax is maintained within the paragraphs them-
selves. The first paragraph describes the sea of sand and gravel;
the next tells of a river running precious stones; the third tells of
the fabulous plants and animals of that land; the fourth tells of the
unimaginably gorgeous equipment of Prester John's army; and
finally, and most glorious of all, a paragraph describes the incredi-
Creative Writing
ble riches of Prester John's city and palace. Everything is arranged
in climactic order. Moreover, Mandeville's entire book observes the
same order. Starting with the fairly ordinary Balkan area, it proceeds
to the more remarkable Near East, then to the still more extraordi-
nary Middle East, then to the wonderful Far East, and finally to
the utterly fantastic land of Prester John.
4. PROPORTION. Ideas should occupy space in direct proportion
to their importance.
The principle of proportion should be considered both as an in-
junction and as a command. Unimportant ideas must not be
treated at length, and important ideas must be treated at length.
The elaboration of unimportant ideas leads to wordiness, triviality,
and tiresomeness; the slighting of important ideas leads to disap-
pointment of the reader, apparent pointlessness, and seeming lack
of discrimination on the part of the writer. Ordinarily, the impor-
tant part of a discussion should be developed with special ampli-
tude; the important character in a story should be introduced with
special privileges of space; the important action of a narrative
should be recounted with special elaborateness of detail. Even
when the temptation is to be brief, the writer should deliberately
proceed with his amplifying. Brevity has its virtues, but also its
vices.
The only time when the rule may be suspended is when a writer
wishes to avail himself of the device of contrast, and so expresses an
important idea with notable terseness. "Jesus wept." The simple
statement, so noticeably short, contrasts so powerfully with the
magnitude of the sentiment that the verse is effective. Such effective
brevity, however, can be employed only on special occasions. When
it is used too often as a rhetorical device, it looks affected. Further-
more, it can never be effective unless it has the added advantages
of position, climax, isolation, or extraordinary dignity of occasion.
It should be remembered that even Lincoln's Gettysburg Address,
with its marvelous brevity of phrase, fell completely flat when it
was originally delivered. It was too short to make much impression
on the audience. If Lincoln had not been martyred soon afterward,
and if the address were not read today isolated from the circum-
Fundamental Principles 13
stances of its delivery, it is quite possible that unimpressed Ameri-
cans would have allowed it to disappear into that limbo reserved
for most public addresses.
a. In Sentence Elements. Whether by accident or not, the most
important phrase in Lee's eulogy of Washington quoted already
"First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen"
not only occurs at the summit of the climax, but also occupies more
space than both the other phrases together. The whole expression
was purposely designed, one could almost believe, to be immortal.
Though exceptions are plentiful, it is ordinarily true that, if we wish
a phrase or a sentence to make an impression, we must deliberately
develop it until it occupies an amount of space proportionate to its
importance. There is nothing wrong with a phrase like "bare winter
trees" but nobody would remember it. Yet everybody remembers
Shakespeare's
yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Maupassant, in describing the death of his "Old Maid," could have
been content to write, "Her hands and fingers moved nervously/'
But what he actually wrote was, "A ray of sunlight fell on the bed,
lighting up the hands which moved nervously, opening and shutting
without ceasing. The fingers moved as if a thought animated them,
as if they would signify something, indicate some idea, obey some
intelligence." Maupassant enlarged upon a single detail here because
he wanted to be certain that the reader was impressed.
b. In Larger Elements. Roughly speaking, the number of words
in a paragraph, or the number of paragraphs, devoted to any idea
should be proportionate to its importance. Thus, in Mandeville's
description of Prester John's land, referred to above, the part on the
waterless sea occupies 131 words; the part on the river of precious
stones, 104 words; the part on the strange plants and animals, 228
words; the part on the army, 255 words; and the part on the palace,
336 words. Each part (except the second) has space proportionate
to its importance. As a matter of fact, ideas often attain importance
14 Creative Writing
in the readers mind in direct proportion to the space given them.
An idea that a writer does not wish the reader to consider of major
importance will be discussed in only a little space, and an idea that
he wishes the reader to consider very important will be given much
space. The complaints of students about instructors who ask weighty
examination questions on matters barely touched in class are quite
justified.
If we combine the present principle with the principle of climax,
we may express the result diagrammatically as follows:
The average composition should look like this. The least impor-
tant ideas come first, and require the least amount of space; the
more important ideas come later, and require a greater amount of
space.
5. STRUCTURE. Important ideas should be expressed in important
structures; unimportant ideas should be expressed in unimportant
structures.
Importance of structure is relative. A paragraph is more important
than a sentence, a sentence than an independent clause, an inde-
Fundamental Principles 15
pendent clause than a dependent clause, a dependent clause than a
phrase, and a phrase than a word. An idea expressed in one of the
lower structures may be made to assume a higher importance in
the reader's mind by being given a higher structure; and, conversely,
an idea expressed in one of the higher structures may lose impor-
tance if expressed in a lower structure.
a. In Sentence Elements. If a writer wishes to emphasize an
idea he raises its structure. Thus, instead of using a single descriptive
word, as in "a memorable day," he could use a phrase: "a day to be
long remembered." Or he could elevate the phrase to the rank of a
dependent clause: "It was a day which will be long remembered."
Or he could elevate the dependent clause to the rank of an inde-
pendent clause: "The day at length arrived, and it will be long
remembered." Or he could elevate the independent clause to the
rank of a sentence: "The day at length arrived. It will be long re-
membered." The writer has to decide for himself whether he wishes
to call special attention to any idea, and how much attention he
has to make up his mind, and then act accordingly. As Humpty-
Dumpty said, it is merely a question of who shall be master, the
writer or the sentences that he creates.
b. In Larger Elements. The next rank above a sentence is a
paragraph. An idea expressed as a paragraph ( whether in one sen-
tence or more than one) assumes a special importance in the read-
er's mind. Writing during the First World War, John Galsworthy
uses this device; he gives special significance to an idea by reserving
for it an entire paragraph:
He who ever gives a thought to the life of man at large, to his miseries
and disappointments, to the waste and cruelty of existence, will remember
that if American or Briton fail in this climb, there can but be for us both,
and for all other peoples, a hideous slip, a swift and fearful fall into an
abyss, whence all shall be to begin over again.
We shall not fail neither ourselves, nor each other. Our comradeship
will endure. 1
Most paragraphs contain more sentences than the one or two in
the example just quoted; but the fundamental principle that an
1 From John Galsworthy's lecture on American and Briton. Reprinted by per-
mission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
16 Creative Writing
idea expressed as a paragraph assumes special importance remains
the same. Furthermore, an idea that requires several paragraphs
assumes a still larger significance in the reader's mind. But here
we move over into the field of proportion, a topic that has already
been discussed.
6. REPETITION. Repetition serves many purposes of emphasis,
unity, clarity, coherence, and all-round effectiveness.
The reason repetition is effective is that no reader is wide-awake,
alert, and critical at every instant. For any of a number of reasons
he may miss the entire significance of the writing. But if each im-
portant point is repeated again and again, the reader is certain to
get it at one or another of the repetitions. This, then, is the chief
value of repetition it makes the reader know the writer's principal
thought, and keep it in mind.
a. In Sentence Elements. Repetition of the elements composing
sentences may involve words, ideas, or structures. In the following
discussion, these three will be considered in that order.
(1) Much repetition is for the sake of intensification. We often
repeat words in speech, as when we cry, "Quick! Quick! Quick!" or
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Poetry and song are filled with repetitions of
words:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he.
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
In prose writing, it must be confessed, repetition of words is sel-
dom used for purposes of intensifying an impression. Once in a
while it is most effective, as when Katherine Mansfield describes a
young girl at a dance: "But in one minute, in one turn, her feet
glided, glided" or when Chekhov describes the sleepy little maid:
"She is as sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy!" If the device is used
too often in prose, it sounds affected.
Much more common in prose is the repetition of ideas for the sake
Fundamental Principles 17
of intensification. A large portion of the Bible consists of repetitions
for the purpose of intensification. The following five-fold repetition
is a good example:
The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to
the wise, nor riches to men of understanding, nor favor to men of skill.
Hawthorne uses the device in this sentence about "The Ambitious
Guest": "He had traveled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had
been a solitary path; for, with the lofty caution of his nature, he
had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise have been
his companions/'
Even more common than repeated ideas in prose are repeated
structures. The passage just quoted from the Bible illustrates this
kind of repetition as well as repetition of ideas. Macaulay's much-
admired indictment of Charles I illustrates repetition of structure,
but not entirely of idea:
We charge him with having broken his coronation oath; and we are
told that he kept his marriage vow! We accuse him of having given up his
people to the merciless inflictions of the most hot-headed and hard-hearted
of prelates; and the defense is that he took his little son on his knee and
kissed him! We censure him for having violated the articles of the Petition
of Right, after having, for good and valuable consideration, promised to
observe them; and we are informed that he was accustomed to hear
prayers at six o'clock in the morning!
For some obscure psychological reason, rhythmic structural repeti-
tions such as these have the effect of intensifying the reader's emo-
tions. It is for this reason that poetry, which is largely "an overflow
of powerful feeling," has long been framed in repetitive structural
patterns of meter and stanza.
(2) Repetition may give unity to the reader's impressions by
continually recalling to his mind the topic under discussion. The
following paragraph from Matthew Arnold shows how unity may be
obtained by repetition of words. Here the constant reiteration of
"humane letters" and "engage the emotions" can leave no doubt in
the reader's mind about Arnold's main point it is that "humane
letters engage the emotions":
18 Creative Writing
The need of humane letters, as they are truly called, because they serve
the paramount desire in men that good should be ever present to them,
the need of humane letters to establish a relation between the new con-
ceptions, and our instinct for beauty, our instinct for conduct, is only the
more visible. The Middle Ages could do without humane letters, as it
could do without the study of nature, because it supposed knowledge was
made to engage its emotions so powerfully. Grant that the supposed
knowledge disappears, its power of being made to engage the emotions
will of course disappear along with it, but the emotions themselves, and
their claim to be engaged and satisfied, will remain. Now if we find by
experience that humane letters have an undeniable power of engaging the
emotions, the importance of humane letters in a man's training becomes
not less, but greater, in proportion to the success of modern science in
extirpating what it calls "medieval thinking."
The repetition of an idea, rather than of words, for the sake of
unity is so close to repetition for the sake of intensification that
distinguishing between the two is hardly possible or necessary. But
here is a passage from Addison (Spectator, No. 81) that seems to
repeat only for the sake of unification; Addison is saying that
woman's place is in the home.
As our English women excel those of all nations in beauty, they should
endeavor to outshine them in all other accomplishments proper to the sex,
and to distinguish themselves as tender mothers, and faithful wives, rather
than as furious partisans. Female virtues are of a domestic turn. The fam-
ily is the proper province for private women to shine in.
The repetition of structure in order to lend unity to many diverse
ideas is a commonplace of rhetoric. It is like putting an army of
many men into uniform in order to make them seem one organized
body instead of a disorganized rabble. An excellent example of a
diverse mass of ideas assuming a phenomenal unity through sim-
ilarity of structure occurs in the stanza from Shelley quoted earlier.
Here is an example in prose from Dr. Johnson's make-believe diary
of a young lady ( Rambler, No. 191 ) :
I have so many things to do, so many orders to give to the milliner, so
many alterations to make in my clothes, so many visitants' names to read
over, so many invitations to accept or refuse, so many cards to write, and
Fundamental Principles 19
so many fashions to consider, that I am lost in confusion, forced at last to
let in company or step into my chair, and leave half my affairs to the
direction of my maid.
The long sentence, despite its welter of unrelated ideas, achieves
unity by a deliberate repetition of structure.
(3) Repetition of words may make for clarity. Sometimes the
clarity involved is a simple matter of grammatical reference as in
this time-honored example from Freshman English: "If raw milk
disagrees with the baby, boil it." Obviously, the repetition of "milk"
is necessary for clarity. On a slightly higher plane, repetition of
words sometimes helps indicate the connections and relationships of
sentences, or helps the reader follow smoothly the progress and
development of the writer's thought. This use of repetition is dis-
cussed in more detail in the next chapter. Finally, word repetition
may actually be necessary for the reader to understand what the
writer is trying to say. Note, for example, how often words are re-
peated in the following passage by Ralph Barton Perry: "President
Cleveland once remarked, as everyone knows, 'It is a condition,
and not a theory, that confronts us/ I do not remember what con-
dition it was that confronted us; but the practical man is always
confronted by a condition. I shall suggest presently that every
condition does in truth involve a theory; but if so, the practical
man ignores it. His practicality lies in confining himself to finding
an act which will meet the condition."
To see how valuable a part repetition of diction plays in this
paragraph, we have only to rewrite the paragraph, omitting all
repetition: "President Cleveland once remarked, as everyone knows,
It is a condition, and not a theory, that confronts us/ I do not re-
member what circumstance it was that faced us; but the practical
man always finds some situation before him. I shall suggest presently
that every occasion does in truth involve a general principle; but if
so, the man of action ignores it. His worldly wisdom lies in confining
himself to finding out a deed which will meet the affair in hand."
Whereas the original paragraph was quite clear, and the relation-
ships of all its sentences with one another clear, the garbled para-
graph is difficult to understand as a whole, and the relationships of
Creative Writing
its sentences are difficult to grasp at one reading, or even two or
three readings.
Repetition of ideas for the sake of clarity is often desirable, or
even necessary. A very large percentage of most non-narrative writ-
ing consists of saying the same thing over and over again in different
words. In the following passage, note how many times Steele (in
Tatler, No. 25) makes the point that duelers are not really honorable
men:
As the matter at present stands, it is not to-do handsome actions de-
nominates a man of honor; it is enough if he dares to defend ill ones. Thus
you often see a common sharper in competition with a gentleman of the
first rank; though all mankind is convinced that a fighting gamester is only
a pickpocket with the courage of a highwayman. One cannot with any
patience reflect on the unaccountable jumble of persons and things in this
town and nation; which occasions very frequently that a brave man falls
by a hand below that of a common hangman.
If the reader seeks further examples of repetition for the sake of
clarity, he need only look about him: a large part of this book, and
particularly of this section, shows how often at least one writer
repeats his ideas for the sake of clarity. It is a habit that the student
writer should acquire as soon as possible.
One cautionary remark is due before we leave the topic of repeti-
tion, in sentence elements. Words to be often repeated must be im-
portant words. Repetition of unimportant words sounds awkward
and amateurish, as in the following sentences written by freshmen:
In Ivanhoe, and also several other novels, Scott writes about the Middle
Ages; but he writes also about the eighteenth century.
From the square where the courthouse stands, one can look up and see
a church standing on each of the three hills that stand above the village.
The players themselves voted to play one post-season game.
b. In Larger Elements. Outright word-for-word repetition of
larger elements (paragraphs, sections, chapters) for the sake of
clarity is virtually unknown in prose. Repetition of ideas, however,
is common. It involves repeated statements, in different words, of
Fundamental Principles
the same idea. Almost any convenient well-written book will illus-
trate this practice. The first five paragraphs in the third chapter of
Mr. Bernard Muddiman's The Men of the Nineties begin with the
following sentences:
(1) One endeavors to remember some one or two outstanding novels
written by one of the writers of this group. It must be at once admitted,
one fails to recall a great novel.
(2) None of the men of the nineties (as I have defined them) pro-
duced a great novel.
(3) But so far as English fiction alone is concerned, it cannot be said
that the men of the nineties produced work of a very high order.
(4) Indeed, if the name of a good English novel by one of them is
demanded, it will be singularly difficult to suggest a title.
(5) In the face of this strange dearth of novels in this school, one can-
not help asking the reasons that engendered it. 2
When a reader has thus faced this idea five times in five successive
paragraphs, he is pretty clear about the main idea of Mr. Muddi-
man's third chapter. Repetition keeps the reader constantly reminded
of the subject.
Repetition of structure is useful for creating both unity and clarity.
Almost any textbook that one cares to examine, as well as most other
non-narrative books and most good essays or articles, consists of
several series of corresponding, or parallel, structures. Paragraphs
will correspond to paragraphs by having similarly worded topic sen-
tences, similarly arranged illustrative material, or numerical head-
ings written down as figures or suggested by words like "first/'
"next/* "a third," and so on. Chapters will correspond to chapters in
general structures; thus, in the first book that lies handy Edward A.
Ross's Social Control Chapters II to V have these headings: 'The
Role of Sympathy," "The Role of Sociability," "The Role of the Sense
of Justice," "The Role of Individual Reaction." It is a manifest effort
to create unity and clarity by a repetition of general structure and
2 Mr. Muddiman's sentences quoted here, as well as farther on in this book,
are used by permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons.
Creative Writing
approach in the four chapters. Finally, parts may correspond to
parts, as in this same book. Part I is titled "The Grounds of Control/'
Part II "The Means of Control/' and Part III "The System of Con-
trol" another manifest effort to achieve unity and clarity by repeti-
tion.
At this point, it might be well for us to sum up what has been said
in this rather long section. We have seen that repetition of words,
ideas, or structures may intensify a concept or feeling; or give unity
to apparently independent elements of composition; or clarify ( and
clarify the interrelationships of) complex or involved ideas and ele-
ments of composition. As a rule, the repetition of words intensifies,
unites, or clarifies minor elements of composition such as phrases,
clauses, and sentences. The repetition of ideas intensifies, unites, or
clarifies larger elements such as groups of sentences, entire para-
graphs, or groups of paragraphs. And the repetition of structure in-
tensifies, unites, or clarifies all elements of composition from mere
phrases up to entire books.
Poetry, with its many repetitions of metrical feet, line-lengths,
rhymes, rhythms, and stanzaic forms, has been defined as patterned
language. Repetition as it has been discussed in this chapter (and
as it will be discussed later in the chapter called "Beauty of Style")
is patterned prose. To be able to create patterns of language is to be
an artist ( or at least a skilled craftsman) with the tools of the writer's
profession. Indeed, it is almost possible to determine a writer's total
skill by measuring his ability to use repetition, and yet to avoid
monotony. The writer who has something to say should repeat it
boldly and often. Let him choose key words and play upon them;
let him voice his main ideas again and again, now in the same words,
now in different; let him weld together seeming incompatibles by
forcing them to assume similar structures; let him at every oppor-
tunity avail himself of the many and fascinating complexities of pat-
terned language.
7. CONTRAST. Contrasts attract attention and make permanent
impressions.
Frederic Taber Cooper, an important critic early in this century,
once wrote: "No matter what art or craft we practise, whether it be
Fundamental Principles 83
the painting of landscapes, or building of bridges, the decoration of
tea-cups or the writing of novels, we cannot hope for fine results
without invoking the aid of contrastthe dash of red to give tone
and harmony to the greens and blues of nature, the touch of pathos
that adds a deeper meaning to the sparkle of comedy, the grave-
digger's jests that intensify the tragedy of Ophelia's death." Contrast
gives accent, vividness, color to writing; it keeps writing from being
monotonous and dull. Yet contrast seldom comes easily and un-
consciously to any writer. It comes, for the most part, only with de-
liberate thought and self-conscious creation.
a. In Sentence Elements. Contrasts may involve tricks of print-
ing, like italics, capitals, or very small type in the midst of ordinary
type, large spaces containing only a few words, and so on.
Or contrasts may involve mere length of sentences or of para-
graphs. A short sentence in the midst of long ones, or after long
ones, attracts attention to itself. "He was told to lead his men for-
ward at any cost, to overrun the enemy positions, to occupy the
wooded hill, and to prepare for the counterattack. All this he did."
This short last sentence stands out prominently because of the con-
trast between its shortness and the length of the preceding sentence.
Short paragraphs consisting of a single sentence, or of a few brief
sentences, or even of a single fragmentary sentence, have a similar
effect. Examples of such paragraphs have already been quoted in
another section of this chapter.
Contrasts in length, however, constitute only the very simplest
of contrasts. In addition, rhetorical questions occurring in the midst
of declarative sentences; sudden learned words in the midst of famil-
iar diction, or sudden words of doubtful respectability in the midst
of formal diction; sudden inversions or unlooked-for twistings-about
of sentence elements in the midst of plain straightforward writing;
words which have certain almost invariable connotations, but which
may be used in a literal and absolute sense these are some of the
devices of contrast.
b. In Larger Elements. Many effective contrasts involve subject
matter, mood, or (in fiction) personalities of characters. Hamlet's
scene with his mother, in which he demands that she "Look here,
Creative Writing
upon this picture, and on this," is so memorable because the two
kings appear as such contrasting personalities. Byron's description of
the night before Waterloo in Childe Harold is one of the great pur-
ple patches of literature because it presents a contrast between the
warmth, gaiety, light, and love-making of the Duchess of Richmond's
ball, and the terror, darkness, and grief of war. Dickens uses the
trick of contrast over and over again: the simultaneous deaths of
Dora and Dora's lap dog; the death of Paul Dombey in the dark and
desolate house on a lovely day when the outside world is full of sun-
shine and birds' songs these are but two examples. Shakespeare
uses contrast with unapproachable humor in the scene between the
superstitious and verbose Glendower and the practical-minded,
blunt Hotspur. Indeed, the technique of the Shakespearian play
nearly always involves contrasting personalities for the principal
characters. The hesitating Hamlet on the one hand, and the vigorous
Laertes on the other; the traitorous Macbeth and the loyal Macduff;
the passionate Antony and the level-headed Octavius; the strong-
minded, manly Henry V and the weak, effeminate Dauphin; the
etherealized Ariel and the beastly Caliban and so on.
The student should deliberately examine his subject before he
ever sets pen to paper, and ask himself wherein he can employ con-
trasts. Is he writing a paper on the present federal administration?
Certain contrasts inevitably present themselves social and eco-
nomic conditions before and since the inauguration of this adminis-
tration.
Is he writing an essay on cats? The contrast between the habits
and the personalities of cats, and the habits and personalities of dogs
will better characterize cats than will pages of description or
analysis.
Is he writing a story with a naive and gentle girl as the heroine?
A contrasting character, worldly wise and hard, will bring out and
intensify the character of the heroine.
Since few writers would hit upon such contrasts by instinct, the
student may well make it a rule never to do any piece of writing
without first carefully examining the possibilities for contrast in-
herent in his subject.
Fundamental Principles 85
8. INTEREST. By deliberately employing certain well-known de-
vices, a writer may heighten the interest of his work.
Again, it should be stressed that devices for gaining interest do
not always come easily and naturally to the writer. While he is plan-
ning his work, while he is writing it, and even after he has written it,
he must deliberately explore means of making it more readable. Of
course, one of the best guarantees of interesting work is an interest-
ing personality. No mere textbook on creative writing can tell the
student how to be an interesting personality. All that the textbook
can do about this problem is to tell the student to be his real self
that is, to try to find within himself the essential individual who has
been muffled under layer after layer of conventional verbiage, con-
ventional ways of looking at life, conventional reactions to life,
conventional patterns of education and to be daring enough to in-
troduce this essential individual into his writing. Even so, however,
interesting personalities sometimes write dully. They must work
hard and scheme intelligently to make their work interesting.
a. In Sentence Elements. Perhaps this subsection should be pref-
aced by the remark that the advice given here may often be utilized
(as amendment, revision, or insertion) after a piece of writing is
finished.
Periodic sentences or sentences having suspense, as described
early in this chapter, are often more readable, more nervous, than
loose or rambling sentences. Fairly short sentences ( averaging about
20 words in length ) , if not more interesting, are at least more read-
able than very long sentences (averaging over 30 words). The de-
vices of contrast in sentence elements, as outlined in the preceding
section, create interesting style. Parallel structure, if it is not over-
done, is always attractive. Transposition of words out of their normal
grammatical order (a device discussed more fully in the next chap-
ter) makes for freshness of style; so does the use of vowel patterns
and consonant patterns, to be discussed later on in the chapter
"Beauty of Style/* Figures of speech are always helpful; they too will
be discussed in more detail in a later chapter. In order to emphasize
by repetition (as well as to anticipate the next paragraph) the pres-
ent writer invites the attention of the reader to the following quota-
Creative Writmg
tions: "Variety is the spice of life" (Cowper); "Variety is the soul
of pleasure" ( Aphra Behn ) ; "The great source of pleasure is variety"
( Dr. Johnson ) ; "Variety is the source of joy below" ( Gay ) ; "Variety:
that is my motto" (La Fontaine); "The one rule is to be infinitely
various" (Stevenson, in particular reference to the art of writing).
Nothing makes for dull writing quite so much as monotony, and
nothing makes for lively writing quite so much as variety.
One other device for creating interest is quotation, which will be
commented upon at some length here because it will not be dis-
cussed elsewhere in this book. When writers are very young, mis-
trusting their own judgment, they quote at length and with fre-
quency; when, they are a little older, they are so afraid of appearing
unoriginal that they hesitate to quote anything. Both extremes are
deplorable. Too much quotation sounds timid and immature, or
( which is worse ) pedantic; but no quotation at all may leave a com-
position with too little variety. Most readers tire of the same style
extended through page after page, for no matter how various and
rich a style it may be, it is bound to possess a certain inescapable
sameness of tone which will at last weary the reader. Quotations in-
serted occasionally relieve this sameness and postpone the inevitable
weariness. Sometimes quotations may come spontaneously to the
writer while he is in the act of composing; but usually they come
only after deliberate and laborious search when the act of composing
is over. Accordingly, when he has made the first draft of almost any
kind of writing except fiction, a writer might well make a practice
of running through some of the published literature on similar sub-
jects to find passages that express some of his own ideas, and then
insert these passages into his own work or substitute them for his
own words. 3 For example, a traveler describing scenes in Europe
might go, to take the first authors that come to mind, to Stevenson's
Travels with a Donkey, Byron's Childe Harold, or Mark Twain's In-
nocents Abroad; a student of socialism in America could hardly re-
frain from quoting from Norman Thomas, Henry George, or Eugene
3 This advice does not apply, of course, to writing which is a record of re-
search done, or which is in any other way statistical, factual, or informative. It
applies only to original creative writing which is imaginative or reflective.
Fundamental Principles 87
Debs; and an essayist writing on the social life of insects would cer-
tainly quote from Fabre, Maeterlinck, Wheeler, and even Virgil.
While we are on this subject, we may pause to mention a few
sources always good for quotations. There are, of course, the stand-
ard collections of selected quotations such as may be found in any
good library. But possibly the most usable sources are the works of
epigrammatists and maxim writers such as Oscar Wilde, Samuel
Butler (of the Notebooks), Bernard Shaw, Carlyle, La Rochefou-
cauld, Pascal, La Bruyere, Poor Richard, Alexander Pope, Bacon,
and Theophrastus. Likewise, most of the great classics contain lines
suitable to almost any worthwhile thought. An hour's paging through
Shakespeare, Tennyson, Milton, Virgil, or any good anthology of
lyric poetry of any time or country will uncover a dozen lines seem-
ingly penned for no other purpose than to be quoted. A special word
should be said for the King James Bible. It is extraordinarily rich in
quotable passages of all sorts the straightforward earnestness of
Paul, the bitter pessimism of Ecclesiastes, the sober business counsel
of the Proverbs, the ecstatic imagery of the Psalms, the sensuous
rapture of the Song of Songs, and the vivid epithets and flashing
anger of Isaiah. No other book has had so profound an influence on
English style and language; and no other book can give a writer
more quotations, concrete and powerful, and filled with connotations
that are rooted fast in the traditions and the spirit of the Anglo-
Saxon.
Quotations should not be used ostentatiously. In general, except
for purely expository purposes, they should be short; that is, they
should seldom be more than a couple of sentences in length, and
they may often be incorporated as clauses or phrases within the
writer's own sentences. The phrase, "As So-and-so says or puts it
or remarks," should be avoided.
Even the lowest of us may have high ideals; or as Oscar Wilde says,
*A11 of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."
This sounds formal and affected because the quotation is too ob-
viously inserted to impress the reader. It would sound better if it
went:
88 Creative Writing
When Oscar Wilde said that "all of us are in the gutter, but some of us
are looking at the stars," he meant that even the lowest of us may have
high ideals.
When the language of a quotation is obviously Biblical, Shake-
spearian, Miltonic, or Burnsian, or when the quotation is familiar,
the source from which it is taken ought not to be mentioned. To
write, "As Shakespeare says, 'All the world's a stage' "; or, "As St.
Paul puts it, 'These three remain, faith, hope, and charity* "; or, "As
the old proverb has it, 'Honesty is the best policy* "; or, "In the words
of Burns, 'My heart is weary, fu' o' care' " to write thus is to insult
the reader. The quotations themselves tell their origins.
b. In Larger Elements. A primary way to be interesting is to use
perennially interesting subjects like sex, religion, murders, execu-
tions, disasters, evidences of rationality in animals, relics of past
ages, cures for common diseases, methods of making money, morbid
aspects of human nature, and similar subjects which we need not
trouble to catalogue here.
Another obvious, but altogether different, means of giving interest
is the setting up of an opposing idea to overthrow. Readers like a
contest. That is, they had rather see something disproved than
proved; something attacked rather than something created. A writer
may cater to these combative instincts of his readers without de-
scending to the level of cheap politicians. He can be vigorous, virile,
and aggressive without being ignoble. He can prove even while he
disproves; he can create even while he attacks. And he can succeed
in being interesting where a more timid writer would be dull.
No writer can be interesting if he gives the impression of being
exhausted at the end of his work. How to avoid finishing like a child's
toy which has run down and is teetering feebly to a close is a prob-
lem that should exercise every writer. The solution of the problem
differs with every composition. But the solution frequently lies in the
application of principles discussed earlier in this chapter: arranging
ideas in the order of climax, giving scant attention to unimportant
ideas, and using a wealth of details to back up generalizations. An
old but still effective trick is to say occasionally such things as, "This
is not the place to dwell on that subject," or "Time and space will not
Fundamental Principles
allow me to deal with that question now," and so on. Remarks like
these persuade the reader that the writer has depths beyond those
exposed, and so tantalize the reader with the lure of the unknown.
A fifth very common way of giving interest is by means of humor
and a feeling of good humor pervading much of the composition.
Communists would be much more successful if more of them had a
sense of humor, and socialism might be the reigning system if all
socialists were good-natured. Intensity of passion, righteousness of
cause, and intelligence of outlook all have their effect at times; but
for persuasiveness and interestingness, they do not compare with
humor. A writer may try to prove the soundness of an argument; but
if he can create a laugh, he will not be asked to prove anything. He
may try to show that what he has to say is so important that no one
can afford to ignore it; but if he can create a laugh, he will have
readers who will take the importance of his argument for granted.
What has just been said is particularly true in America; it need
not be true in other countries. But in any country, writing which
shows good taste by being urbane and tolerant, yet firm; which
shows open-mindedness by being good-humored and dispassionate,
yet sincere; which shows consideration for others by avoiding vio-
lence and extremes, yet remaining shrewd and witty such writing
is interesting anywhere in the world.
Other devices for gaining interest are not so obvious as those just
mentioned. Some which may require special planning of structure or
special methods of development are these: progression, the appeal
to self-interest, analogy, and illustration.
To consider the first of these: We have all seen the lecturer who,
as he reads his discourse to an audience and finishes each page, slips
that page back under his manuscript. The audience perceives no
diminution in the thickness of the manuscript; it feels that no prog-
ress is being made; and it despairs. Like an audience, the reader
must be made to feel that he is actually getting somewhere. Nobody
likes to read page after page of solid prose unbroken by mechanical
devices indicating progression paragraphs, divisions, chapters,
parts. Everyone likes the feeling of accomplishment that comes with
the end of one paragraph and the beginning of a new one or of a
SO Creative Writing
division, or chapter, or part, or book. Everyone likes to feel that he
is getting somewhere, not merely plowing on endlessly and point-
lessly through page after page of writing.
In various ways (besides the mechanical devices of division just
mentioned ) can a reader be made to feel that he is progressing. The
simplest way is for the writer to announce at intervals, throughout
the composition, just how much ground has been covered, and just
how much yet remains to be explored. This sort of announcement
may be made in so many words, like, "We have considered so-and-
so; it remains for us to study such-and-such.'' Or it may be implied
by numbers, as when, for example, a writer says, "In the first place,"
and "Next," and "Thirdly," and "A fourth point," and "Finally." With
such an orderly system of announcement, the reader is certain to get
a definite sense of progression, and to feel that the writer is covering
ground toward the attainment of a definite end.
A second way to interest a reader is to show how a subject may be
of real and immediate concern to him. For instance, people are or-
dinarily not much interested in local politics until they discover that
their water bills have suddenly increased by about fifty per cent, and
that the bad stretch of street in their block goes unrepaired; they are
not much interested in plague epidemics until they discover a case
of smallpox in the school which their children attend; and they are
not much interested in subversive plots until they discover that a
bomb has been found under the bus in which they commute every
day. When a writer can make distinct contacts such as these between
his abstract subject and his reader's self-interest, two-thirds of the
work of being interesting is done.
A third source of interest involving the structure of a composition
is the use of analogy. An analogy is a figure of speech chiefly differ-
ing from a simile in being an elaborate comparison between two
things like each other in many respects instead of merely one. Be-
sides being a variation from literal, straightforward statement, an
analogy may be interesting for various reasons.
(a) It may attract the reader's interest by drawing a parallel be-
tween conditions that concern the reader and conditions that do not
concern him For instance, a reader may not have the slightest in-
Fundamental Principles 31
terest in the economic problems of England following the Industrial
Revolution, but if the reader is made to see those problems as analo-
gous to our own problems, he may become amazingly interested in
the economic history of England.
(b) Moreover, analogies may serve to convert the abstract into
the concrete. Let us take an example: "There is no doubt that contact
with the things that they do not understand is to many minds dis-
tinctly disagreeable." This abstract statement is not particularly sig-
nificant or memorable. But Frank Colby, the author, converts it into
a strikingly concrete analogy by adding, "A dog not only prefers a
customary and unpleasant odor; he hates a good one. A perfume
pricks his nose, gives a wrench to his dog nature, perhaps tends to
'undermine those moral principles' without which dog 'society can-
not exist/ " This concrete expression is obviously far more interesting
than the abstraction.
( c ) An analogy may be interesting because it clarifies or simplifies
an intricate argument or an involved description. The complex tangle
of knotted theological doctrines about the Roman Catholic purga-
tory may be cut through at once by the simple analogy, "Purgatory
is a kind of waiting room or antechamber to heaven/* The compli-
cated map of Greece can be presented clearly in a brief analogy:
"Greece is shaped like a three-fingered hand with a great gash al-
most cutting the palm in two below the thumb/' Such short cuts en-
gage the reader's interest not only because they are imaginative, but
also because they give the reader the triumphant feeling of having
got along famously of having mastered a difficult situation at a
single stroke.
A fourth way in which a composition may be made interesting is
by the use of concrete examples and specific illustrations. Nothing
keeps a reader's interest quite so well as development through par-
ticular details of an abstract generalization. Instead of the vague
statement, "J* m began to associate with bad companions," how
much more vigorous is the particularization, "Jim began to associate
with the boys who gathered at Fatty's Hamburger Joint young
toughs like Butch Lewis, Red Mattson, and Pug Hammond/' In-
stead of the generalized, "All Americans are alike," how much more
Creative Writing
effective is the particularization made by a Frenchman: "Americans
are all alike. Their meals are alike, their homes are alike, their cars
are alike, their tastes in magazines and moving pictures are alike,
their sentimentalities about dogs are alike, their very habits of love-
making are alike/' And instead of the vague, "The children were
noisy at the Saturday morning theater party," how much more in-
teresting is this particularization made by a student:
The noise did not issue from the screen. It was inherent in the audience.
There were shouts, exhortations, and vocal commands to the cowboy-hero
that must have reached him at his home in Hollywood. There were wails,
groans, screams as of voodoo victims, and the keening of fanatical cultists.
There were whistles, stomps, exploding popcorn bags, cowbells, and now
and again the soft "plop" of an overwrought mother giving up and drop-
ping gently to the floor.
The development of a general idea by means of examples and il-
lustrations requires observation, memory of fact, and imagination.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the usual run of writers and
speakers employ in their compositions only abstract generalizations.
They have not observed life carefully enough to know it; instead
they know only the laws of their personal creed. They have not been
interested enough in life to remember what it is like; instead they
remember only that they believe a certain thing. They have not im-
agination enough to create, or re-create, a vivid life in which their
reader or their listener can participate; instead they give out only
dry summaries of an intellectual system. A writer who wishes to
avoid both weakness and dullness cannot neglect to expand on his
generalizations by means of examples and illustrations. No other de-
vice of composition is so convincing or so vivifying.
EXERCISES
The end.
Perhaps your instructor will bring some freshman themes to class,
and allow you to look through them for examples of sentences with
good endings or bad endings. Here are some poor sentences taken
from freshman themes; try to improve them:
Fundamental Principles 33
a. She tossed her blonde hair back over her shoulder with one quick
movement of her head.
b. Many students in my class think that they have learned an
enormous amount while they have been in college during the last four
months.
c. His leadership is friendly and effective, though it is not the kind
of leadership a military man would show.
d. Readers who have no specific interest, or very broad interests,
are always glad to see Time on the newsstands, knowing that some-
thing odd or interesting will be in the magazine somewhere.
e. Serious friction between Sir Hyde Parker and Lord Nelson
developed shortly. Parker seemed to dislike Nelson from the be-
ginning.
f . Most of us never stop to think how difficult it is to build one of
the bridges that we cross daily.
g. The modern writer must use new tactics of composition just as
the modern mechanic must use new kinds of tools.
h. It seems doubtful whether I shall get to finish my college educa-
tion because of the critical international situation.
i. My mother's beautiful grey hair is one among many things that I
admire about her.
j. A new development is the stream of consciousness method that
became popular in the 1920's and 1930's.
Make each of the following groups of ideas into a single sentence
having a strong ending. Remember that you yourself must decide
which of the ideas listed is of paramount importance:
Example:
Hannibal was forced to adopt the dangerous expedient of marching
through Europe.
He was planning to attack Rome.
Carthage had lost control of the sea.
Because Carthage had lost control of the sea, Hannibal was forced,
in attacking Rome, to adopt the dangerous expedient of marching
through Europe.
a. The weakfish is commonly called a trout.
It is a salt-water fish.
It is extremely popular with fishermen.
b. My first four months in college have been beneficial.
No other four months of my life have been nearly so beneficial.
I feel certain of this.
34 Creative Writing
c. I have been in college three years.
I have taken an almost completely technical course.
This is not the best course.
d. Women profit by attending a coeducational college.
They learn to compete with men.
They learn how men think and act.
This is essentially a man's world.
e. I have developed systematic habits of study.
I never had such habits before I entered college.
f. She was an energetic, independent woman.
She had a keen intellect.
She over-disciplined her children.
g. The reactionary is a person who has never grown up.
He feels it necessary to depend upon tradition and authority.
He fears to be independent,
h. Maya civilizations had periodic fluctuations of success and failure.
The fluctuations are associated with climatic changes.
No primitive people could keep a tropical jungle at bay.
i. Rousseau knew that he had many weaknesses.
He tried to blame society for them.
He attacked civilization,
j. Spender's verse sometimes suffers from imprecision.
It contains no cheap stylistic trickery.
It offers no easy political solutions to man's problems.
What would be the best way to end
a. A review of the arguments for (or against) universal military
training in the United States.
b. An account of Spanish cruelties in the New World.
c. A campaign speech for a political candidate.
d. An essay on Schopenhauer's philosophy.
e. An article on the wild birds of your county.
2. Suspense.
Make each of the following groups of ideas into a sentence having
good suspense:
a. His daughter fell ill.
She died.
He was rich.
b. Dante was melancholy.
His melancholy came from within him.
He did not want to be melancholy.
Fundamental Principles 35
His melancholy was not due to caprice.
It was not a product of external circumstances.
c. Unemployment is our outstanding problem.
It troubles the workers.
It agitates the government.
It is the ruination of employers.
d. Deliver us from fire.
From sword.
From sudden death.
e. Knowledge got except by working is all hypothetical.
It is a thing to be argued about.
It is a thing floating in the clouds.
f. Many young men left this country in 1918.
They went to Europe.
Thousands died in battle.
g. It was always his deepest desire to go to college.
But first he wanted to finish high school.
He wanted to pay his own way through college, too.
h. Dishonesty and crime are increasing.
The police are as competent as ever.
The public as a whole is worse.
i. He died in the spring.
It was at about the time the first swallow arrived,
j. The ideals of the American people have changed greatly in the
last twenty years.
The cheap car is responsible.
Yet there has been little real cultural progress.
Write a beginning which would create suspense in each of the fol-
lowing:
a. A story about a man who deserted his wife.
b. An account of some tour you have made.
c. An account of a hunting trip.
d. An account of the methods by which cancer may be cured.
e. A series of paragraphs on the most important persons in your
town.
f . A character sketch of an absent-minded man.
3. Climax.
a. In the sentences you have made above, have you kept in mind
the principle of climax?
b. Arrange the sentences in the following paragraphs in climactic
86 Creative Writing
order, and study the climactic order within several of the individual
sentences:
1. Man's breath is fatal to his fellows. 2. Men are devoured by our
towns. 3. The more they are massed together, the more corrupt they
become. 4. Of all creatures man is least fitted to live in herds. 5. Men
are not made to be crowded together in ant-hills, but scattered over
the earth to till it. 6. Disease and vice are the sure results of over-
crowded cities. 7. Huddled together like sheep, men would very
soon die.
Jean Jacques Rousseau: A garbled paragraph from Emile (1762).
1. The minds of men were gradually reduced to the same level, the
fire of genius was extinguished, and even the military spirit evaporated.
2. The natives of Europe were brave and robust. 3. The most aspiring
spirits resorted to the court or standard of the emperors; and the de-
serted provinces, deprived of political strength or union, insensibly
sunk into the languid indifference of public life. 4. The long peace,
and the uniform government of the Romans, introduced a slow and
secret poison into the vitals of the empire. 5. Spain, Gaul, Britain,
and Illyricum supplied the legions with excellent soldiers, and consti-
tuted the real strength of the monarchy. 6. The posterity of their bold-
est leaders was contented with the rank of citizens and subjects. 7.
They received laws and governors from the will of their sovereign, and
trusted for their defense to a mercenary army. 8. Their personal valor
remained, but they no longer possessed that public courage which is
nourished by the love of independence, the sense of national honor,
the presence of danger, and the habit of command.
Edward Gibbon: A garbled paragraph from The Decline and Fall
of the Roman Empire (1776).
Topics for several paragraphs are listed in each of the groups below.
Tell how the arrangement of these paragraphs would vary according
to your own purpose:
a. The Greeks believed that evil was due to inherent imperfection in
reality.
The Hebrews attributed both good and evil to the will of God.
Zoroastrians saw evil as a cosmic principle at war with God.
Buddhists thought that evil was inherent in selfhood.
b. Oil is the largest single industry in Venezuela.
The development of the steel industry is beginning.
Factories for making rubber tires and tubes have opened.
Cattle-raising has long been a major industry in Venezuela.
c. The student makes requests through his instructor.
The instructor, through the head of his department.
Fundamental Principles 37
The head of a department, through the president.
The president, to the board of trustees.
d. He is a sensitive and accomplished stylist.
His storytelling ability is unquestioned.
He has deep sympathy for human suffering.
He understands human character.
e. Some people think in terms of absolutes and ideals.
Others think in terms of actual facts.
Others think in terms of the relation of facts to one another.
Others think in terms of the relation of facts to absolutes and
ideals.
4. Proportion.
a. Do the sentences you have written or corrected in the previous
exercises conform to the laws of proportion?
b. Revise the following sentences according to the laws of propor-
tion so as to make the important idea in each really seem important:
After an absence of ten years, he returned to his native city,
and found that his mother was dead.
The year moved on to an unusually warm March.
The many critics of our present age would have us believe that
science threatens civilization.
She made a loving and devoted mother, though she was so
nervous that she sometimes scolded the children when their faults
should have been overlooked.
The roads are still very poor in country regions where horses
are used, especially on hills.
c. Write one paragraph about three people who have influenced
your life. Make one of the three seem more important than the others.
Next, write two additional paragraphs, in each of which a different one
of the trio is made to seem most important. As nearly as possible, use
the same materials in all three paragraphs.
d. Suppose you were writing a story with this theme: "People who
break social conventions always make themselves unhappy." Which
parts of the story would you enlarge upon if you were writing for a
serious magazine interested in real literature? If you were writing for a
cheap newspaper-serial syndicate? If you were writing for a religious
magazine?
5. Structure.
a. Look over the groups of sentences listed in the preceding exer-
cises, and try to determine which sentences should be developed into
38 Creative Writing
paragraphs. Could the ideas suggested in several sentences be com-
bined in one paragraph? Do your decisions about the sentences that
should be developed into paragraphs harmonize with your decisions
about position, climax, and proportion?
b. See also the Exercises for Sections 2-3 of Chapter II.
6. Repetition.
a. Study the repetitions of words for intensification in some book of
the Bible say Ecclesiastes I, III, and IV; and then try to enlarge in
a similar way on two or three of the Proverbs of Solomon say those in
Chapter XII.
b. Write three or four sentences repeating the idea (not the words)
of each of the following sentences:
There was no water in that land.
The man was insane.
The girl was beautiful.
It rained all day.
The desk was untidy.
c. Take some paragraph from a freshman theme that your in-
structor has brought to class (or from some old theme of your own)
and recast it so as to give it parallel structures throughout.
d. Rewrite the following paragraph so as to have key-words appear-
ing throughout:
We have now arrived at one consideration which must always limit
frankness in literature, namely, the standard of contemporary taste.
The modesty that hesitates to align itself with this criterion is a short-
coming. But if we are content with this consideration alone, our
scale of judgment becomes purely historical; we are left with a sliding
scale that readjusts itself to every new epoch. We feel at once that we
need, besides the shifting standard just mentioned, some fixed unit
of judgment that never varies. Neither the popular preferences of the
brawling Restoration period, nor those of the prudish Victorian age
are satisfactory.
Arthur Waugh: A garbled paragraph from an essay on
"Reticence in Literature."
e. How many times has the main idea been repeated in the para-
graph just quoted? Try to make the paragraph more effective by
putting more of its sentences into parallel structure.
f. Rewrite some freshman theme (or some old theme of your own,
or some passage from a book or magazine) so as to make it about
twice as long by means of repeating its ideas in differ ent words.
g. Suppose you were writing an article on "The Different Sections
Fundamental Principles 39
of My Home Town/' What parallel divisions would you make if you
were writing as an architect? As a social worker? As a historian? As
a man wanting to establish a retail business? As a public health
worker?
7. Contrast.
a. Read a story by some good writer, and carefully analyze all the
lesser and larger elements of contrast it contains.
b. Study the contrasts in the following passage from Dr. Johnson's
life of Addison. Write a criticism in Dr. Johnson's manner of the style
of some other author. If you wish, rewrite your criticism, using other
devices of contrast involving the length of sentences, rhetorical ques-
tions, inversions, unusual words, etc.
His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not
formal, on light occasions not groveling; pure without scrupulosity,
and exact without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always
easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never
deviates from his track to snatch a grace; he seeks no ambitious orna-
ments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His page is always lumi-
nous, but never blazes in unexpected splendor. What he attempted,
he performed; he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic;
he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither
studied amplitude, nor affected brevity; his periods, though not dili-
gently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain an
English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostenta-
tious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.
c. Write paragraphs defining the following by means of contrast:
Pleasant weather.
An interesting lecturer.
A career.
An old person.
The typical college student.
d. Develop elements of contrast in the plot, character, and setting
of the following suggested stories:
A young woman loves a man of whom her family disapproves,
marries him, and then finds that her family was right.
A doting mother brings up a daughter with the ideal of de-
nying her nothing. When the child grows up, and the mother
cannot possibly satisfy all demands, the child begins to hate the
mother.
A young college couple plan to elope after a dance. But during
40 Creative Writing
the course of the dance, the girl meets another interesting young
man. She refuses to elope.
An artist wishes to paint a perfect madonna. But he finds that
his idea of what she should be changes so fast that he can never
paint her.
A rich man loses his money, is not contented to remain merely
well-to-do, strives frantically to regain his wealth, and finally
commits a crime for the sake of a fortune.
8. Interest.
a. To find out what subjects are inherently interesting to people,
let the members of the class keep a list of items in a week's reading
(of newspapers, magazines, and books) which interest them indi-
vidually. At the end of the week, the items may be read out, and
classified on the blackboard by the instructor.
b. How could you make essays on the following purely expository
subjects have a somewhat belligerent tone:
Raising Corn (cotton, wheat, rice, zinnias, petunias, collie
dogs, canaries, hogs, race horses, etc.).
On Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen.
My First Play (opera, circus, concert, etc.).
"It is not enough to do good; one must do it in the right way."
The Man of One Idea.
The Average Man.
National Politics in the 1920's.
The End of Victorianism in America.
Television and our National Culture.
The War to End War.
Types of Hotels.
The Small College or the Large University?
Humor.
Modern Biography.
Why Masefield Is (or Is Not) to Be Regarded as the Poet of
the Common Man.
c. Review the work of the most important modern narrative- writers
to determine how frequently they use the device of attacking some-
thing. Consider especially the work of Shaw, Wells, Galsworthy,
Aldous Huxley, Anatole France, Sinclair Lewis, John Dos Passos, and
John Steinbeck. To what extent does the season's most popular play
or novel use the device? How could you use it in a story
About a college professor.
About a college girl.
Fundamental Principles 41
About a far- western town.
About some foreign or distant locality you know.
About mothers of grown children.
About owners of small businesses.
d. Write short essays on some local, national, or campus abuse
first, in an earnest, serious style; then in a burlesque style like that of
some early American humorist (Josh Billings, Artemus Ward, Will
Rogers) ; then in an urbanely satirical style like that of James Thurber,
Robert Benchley, certain essays in the New Yorker, Addison (Spec-
tator Nos. 13, 112, 275, 281)1 then in a brutally ironic style like that
of Swift (in the later books of Gulliver's Travels). Which essay does
your instructor like best?
e. Try to interest the reader in the subjects listed in b by engaging
his self-interest.
f. Explain the following abstractions by means of concrete anal-
ogies:
Communism.
Inflation.
Education.
The effect of the atomic bomb on our characters.
The place of religion in our public life.
g. Clarify the following complexities by means of analogies:
The way a camera (helicopter, piston of a gasoline engine,
the valve of a tire, a dose of Epsom salts) works.
The Federal Reserve System.
The respiratory (circulatory) system.
Bringing up a child.
Teaching a class.
h. Write a paragraph giving examples and illustrations of the
following:
So-and-so is a typical college student.
Culture has no place in contemporary American life.
The dominant trait of my personality is .
I am disillusioned about college.
Kipling epitomizes British imperialism.
CHAPTER II
Rationality in Style
The word "style," like the words "religion," "goodness," and "patri-
otism," implies a vague, hazy sort of excellence which most of us
would have a hard time accurately defining. But we are certain that
no writing can be really good, or interesting, or worth-while without
style. The cigarette advertisement has style (after its fashion); the
classified advertisement has none. The newspaper account of the
latest natural disaster has style; the schedule of radio programs has
none. Gibbon's History of Rome has style; a mathematics textbook
has none. Style, in a word, is that virtue in writing which makes it
more than merely comprehensible.
I wanted to see a movie. It was an Academy Award picture. It was
being shown at the Rialto. So I went to town this morning and saw the
show.
We can understand such writing easily enough. But it has no style.
Between writing like that, and the writing of people like Conrad,
Faulkner, and Hemingway are a thousand intermediate stages. The
very uppermost of these stages are probably reserved for people who
have a special talent and sensitivity beyond what mere training and
advice can do for them. But training and advice can help any in-
telligent person clamber from the lower stages of writing to the
general region of the upper stages. This chapter and the four that
follow are intended to give advice and foster training that will hasten
the ascent.
The heading of this chapter is somewhat ambiguous. It means
that the chapter will try to tell how meaning and structure should
supplement each other how a rational correspondence should exist
between the tiling said and the method in whicn it is said, to the
42
Rationality in Style
end that it be said as clearly and as logically as possible, and that it
convey the exact meaning and shade of meaning the writer desires.
1. CONTROL. The first requirement of all is that the writer have
a rational understanding of what he wishes to say. That is, he can-
not afford to write even a single sentence without first asking him-
self, What is the most important idea, emotion, or image I wish to
convey in this sentence? He must pick out the one word he wishes
to emphasize, the one phrase he wishes to plant in the mind of his
reader, the one clause which he wishes to make linger and ferment.
Probably more elementary faults of style are due to the failure of
writers to weigh and properly evaluate their own ideas than to any
other weakness. For if the writer himself has riot decided which of
his ideas is the most valuable, how can the reader decide? Rational,
discriminating, judicious thinking is the first habit a writer should
acquire. Without it, he is only a babbler.
A student writes :
There are types of students who go through college on the reputations
which they received at the first of the year because they did extra-hard
work then, though they do very little later on.
The writer has not evaluated his own thoughts here. One thought
is that students go through college on reputations received early in
the year; another thought is that these students worked hard for
their reputations; and a third thought is that these same students
do little work later on. Which of these ideas is most important? The
writer had not decided, and the reader does not know. Accordingly,
the sentence, though comprehensible, is flabby and styleless. Other
examples follow:
Mrs. Rhymes had on an old pair of cotton gloves, and had evidently
been puttering among the ferns and azalea bushes.
Surely you are not in sympathy with those people who raise one of
their own kind to prominence and then hurl muck at their own creations,
as we know some of our city politicians have been doing in the present
campaign.
We had expected him to live, but he died.
44 Creative Writing
I had been vaccinated and was immune to the smallpox which was
sweeping through the city; so I had felt safe, and had come there on a
business trip.
These sentences are all grammatically correct; they are not neces-
sarily ununified; they are not incoherent. But in no sentence has the
writer made a plain and definite choice of the most important idea
in the sentence. In any one of them he might choose any one of sev-
eral ideas as the most important, and construct a new and better
sentence in any one of several ways. The choice never forces itself
on the writer; but rather, the writer must always force his own choice
on the sentence. This means that he shall have enough strength of
intellect to make a decision, render judgment, and do execution on
every idea that comes to him. If he fails to discriminate, he has failed
in the very first step toward acquiring a rational style.
Having decided what is the most important idea in the sentence,
he must let that idea control the sentence by appearing in a dom-
inant structure. He must show the reader that this idea is dominant,
and that he intended it to be dominant. Let us look at the last of the
faulty sentences quoted above. As it now stands, no dominating idea
controls it. He can use his own discretion, therefore, in deciding
which of the four ideas is really the most important, and can frame
four different sentences accordingly :
Though smallpox was sweeping through the city to which I had come
on a business trip, I, having been vaccinated, felt immune.
I felt immune to the smallpox sweeping through the city to which I
had come on a business trip, for I had been vaccinated.
Since I had been vaccinated and felt immune to the smallpox which
was sweeping through the city, I had come there on a business trip.
Though I myself had been vaccinated and felt immune, an epidemic of
smallpox was sweeping through the city to which I had come on a busi-
ness trip.
Each of these sentences has a different meaning, a different implica-
tion from the others; each puts forward a different idea as the con-
trolling and dominant element in the sentence. Which of the four
Rationality in Style 45
sentences the writer shall use depends entirely on his own judg-
ment as to which of the four ideas he desires to impress most strongly
on his readers.
Whenever a writer is confronted by such a multiplicity of choices,
he should cast his vote for one of them, make his decision for better
or for worse, and then stick to his decision. If he cannot decide
which of his ideas is most important, he should do one of three
things: not write the sentence, or write two or three sentences in-
stead of one, or use a balanced or parallel structure.
2. STRUCTURE. A balanced or parallel structure is one in which
the writer has considered two or more ideas to be of equal impor-
tance, has believed they supplement one another, and has expressed
their equality and their supplementariness by placing them in simi-
lar structures within one sentence. The sentence just written was
molded into three parallel structures because each of the three ideas
expressed is of equal importance with the other two, and each forms
only one portion of a complete idea. If they had not been of equal
value, they would not have had the same structure; and if they had
not been portions of the same idea, they would not have been put in
the same sentence.
We may call it a rule, therefore, that ideas of equal thought-value
deserve structures of equal value, and ideas of unequal thought-
value deserve structures of unequal value. The ascending order of
structure-value is this: word, phrase, clause, sentence, and para-
graph. The following sentences illustrate all these stages but the
last:
1. Word: I saw armless men and legless men.
2. Phrase: I saw men without arms and men without legs.
3. Clause: I saw men who had no arms, and men who had no legs.
4. Sentence: / saw armless men. And I saw legless men.
Since the ideas of "armlessness" and "leglessness" are equal in
thought-value, the following sentences with unequal structure-values
would be absurd:
I saw armless men, and men who had no legs.
I saw men who had no arms, arid men without legs.
4-6 Creative Writing
In these last two sentences, equal ideas are given unequal struc-
tures. But a more common offense is that in which unequal ideas are
given equal structures. It is more common because so many inex-
perienced writers have the habit of stringing together a hodgepodge
of ideas by means of "ands" and "buts." One of the sentences quoted
in the preceding section illustrates this fault:
Mrs. Rhymes had on an old pair of cotton gloves, and had evidently
been puttering among the ferns and azalea bushes.
The two clauses are certainly not of equal thought- value; and yet
in this sentence they have the same kind of structure. Such incon-
gruity is irrational.
The following sentences have the same weakness:
He stepped off the curb without looking, and was struck and killed by
a passing car.
Here stepping off a curb, and being killed, are made to seem of
equal importance.
The sun may shine tomorrow, and then we can go horseback riding.
Many people have no aim in life, and move in a circle which gets
nowhere.
His mind was in a turmoil, so he decided to get drunk.
All these sentences can be improved by judicious subordination:
Mrs. Rhymes, with an old pair of cotton gloves on her hands, had evi-
dently been puttering among the ferns and azalea bushes.
Stepping off the curb without looking, he was struck and killed by a
passing car.
If the sun shines tomorrow, we can go horseback riding.
Many people, having no aim in life, move in a circle which gets
nowhere.
Since his mind was in a turmoil, he decided to get drunk.
Rationality in Style 4?
It will be noted that in each of these corrected sentences, the
subordinate idea originally expressed in an independent clause has
been re-expressed in a prepositional phrase, a participial phrase, or
a dependent clause. That is, the structure-value has been reduced
to correspond with the minor thought-values.
Sometimes, however, a writer finds it necessary to do the opposite
that is, to make an important idea really seem important. The
writer accomplishes this feat by raising words to the rank of phrases,
phrases to dependent clauses, dependent clauses to independent
clauses, and independent clauses to sentences. An example follows:
Thompson was a much-traveled man.
Thompson was a man of many travels.
Thompson was a man who had traveled much.
Thompson, who was the man for us, had traveled much.
Thompson was the man. He had traveled much.
This deliberate heightening of an idea's importance requires more
self-conscious artistry than does the proper subordination spoken
of above. This heightening is a positive search for excellence; the
other is merely a negative avoidance of error.
3. POSITION. The most important positions in any element of
composition are the beginning and the end. Reason requires, there-
fore, that (whenever clarity permits) we place our most important
words, phrases, clauses, or ideas in one of these positions. The nega-
tive of this requirement, perhaps it is useless to say, is that we should
avoid placing unimportant words, phrases, clauses, or ideas in the
two important positions in the sentence.
a. The Beginning. Sentences should seldom or never begin with
words like "however," "also," "then too," and the like. But some laws
supersede other laws. The law of clarity always comes first; other
laws are secondary. Moreover, no rule should become a fetish. A
certain fastidious student used to shudder at the very thought of
beginning any sentence with "the" or "a." His instinct was right; but
his practice was perverted.
b. The End. Even more important than the beginning is the end
of a sentence. If the reader will turn back a few pages to the sen-
tence concerning smallpox, vaccination, and immunity, he will see
48 Creative Writing
that each of the corrected versions, except the last, ends with the
principal clause and the principal idea in the sentence. In Section 2,
likewise, each of the improved sentences ends with the principal
clause and the principal idea. The practice illustrated in these sen-
tences is, in general, safe. The important clause and the important
idea should come at the end of the sentence. But like all other prac-
tices, it may be carried too far. It may become an obsession with the
writer, and it may lead to monotony of style. Furthermore, it is not
adapted to writing of a leisurely gait and a familiar tone. It is best
adapted to exposition aiming at absolute clarity, and to argumenta-
tion aiming at conviction.
Yet no sentence should ever end with a tailing off into insignficant
words and ideas:
Most of us would refuse to read more than a few sentences of it.
The gift of prophecy was also assigned to him.
The last two words in these sentences are flat and insipid.
The habit, which most untrained writers have, of placing a par-
ticipial phrase or a dependent clause at the end of a sentence was
mentioned in the previous chapter. Here are some further examples
of these offenses :
Her voice failed, being broken by sobs.
He died yesterday, having been sick only a week.
He took to begging, being on the verge of starvation.
She raised her hands in prayer to Neptune as she stood by the sea.
He would not answer, though I rang the bell several times.
I know, of course, that the drawing is offered only as a very slight and
rapid sketch, and that it is impossible, even for a Rembrandt, to draw
accurately when he is in a hurry, but there is a formlessness in some im-
portant parts of this sketch .(the hands, for instance) which makes it
almost without interest for me.
( This last sentence is almost a model of what a sentence should not
be.) All these sentences are irrational because they indicate by
Rationality in Style
means of subordinate structures that certain ideas are subordinate,
and yet they place these subordinate ideas and structures in the
prominent position in the sentences. A writer of such sentences is
like a strawberry packer who would go to the trouble of culling out
inferior stock, and would then pile this inferior stock at the top ot
the basket for prospective customers to see. The writer should be
like a real berry-packer; he should carefully choose the best of his
stock, and then pile it in the most conspicuous place at the end
of the sentence. If he has a word to emphasize, or a phrase, or a
clause, or an idea, he should juggle the grammatical elements,
manipulate the sentence-parts, rearrange the word-group, so as to
make the important word, phrase, clause, or idea drop neatly into
the prominent place. In a ballet dance, the chorus marches, wheels,
converges, retreats, interlaces in a hundred gyrations; but always the
star dancer appears in the prominent place. Good writing is like that
It coils, turns, pauses, retreats, converges and always the impor-
tant element appears magically at the supreme position.
Note how each member of the following pairs conveys a different
feeling:
They found him drunk in the street.
They found him in the street, drunk.
Queen Victoria walked ahead of us.
Ahead of us walked Queen Victoria.
The tiger now had him by the throat.
The tiger had him by the throat now.
I went from the hotel to my train.
I went to the train from my hotel.
In these sentences, different end-words produce altogether different
effects.
c. Transposition. Words or phrases transposed from their normal
place in a sentence usually gain in emphasis. This rule holds good
except in sentences where transposition would take a word away
from the end-position.
Before continuing with this discussion, perhaps we had better see
60 Creative Writing
just what the normal sentence order is. The following sentence il-
lustrates the elemental order:
The good man kindly gave the book to me.
(a) Subject, preceded by adjective.
( b ) Verb, preceded by adverb.
(c) Object.
(d) Indirect object.
This elemental order has a few additional complexities which de-
serve mention:
The man in gray talked in a high voice.
(a) Subject, followed by adjective phrase.
(b) Verb, followed by adverbial phrase.
This order holds for adjective and adverbial clauses as well as
phrases :
The man who lived down the street talked when he had the chance.
These examples show the fundamental orders. As for the order
in more complicated sentences, the reader can more safely rely on
his instinct for the language than on his memory of half-a-dozen
special rules.
All this has been a digression. The main point is that attention can
be focused on a word in a sentence if that word is placed out of its
natural order. The italics in the following sentences indicate words
out of their natural order:
Everywhere in the darkness, I saw men lying about, dead.
Patiently, he listened.
The sunshine, cold and bright, offered no sympathy.
Last of all these marching thousands rode Napoleon.
All datj were the birds loud in my garden.
Among these visions wandered my spirit.
The last sentence is almost bad. So much distortion looks artful
and insincere. Indeed, a writer must use the device of transposition
Rationality in Style 51
with the most discreet caution. He should reserve it for those oc-
casions when he "would be very fine." There it is effective. But if
he uses it every time he has the opportunity to do so, it soon tarnishes
and looks cheap. How poor would be these verses from Ecclesiastes
if they were distorted by transposition in the following way:
Of all the labor which under the sun he taketh, what hath a man the
profit? Into the sea run the rivers all; and yet full is not the sea.
On the other hand, how effective are these examples of transposi-
tion from the same book:
For in much wisdom is much grief.
In the day of prosperity, be joyful.
He by his wisdom delivered the city.
All things have I seen in the days of my vanity.
The reader should notice in passing that the transpositions in the
first two examples are designed to place important words in the im-
portant end-position, rather than to attract attention to themselves.
In the last two examples, however, the transpositions are designed
to emphasize the words transposed. Unless transposition can serve
one of these two purposes, it is not worth while for its own sake.
One other purpose, however, it may serve; and that is to make tran-
sitions from sentence to sentence more smooth. 1
4. CONTINUITY. A piece of writing has continuity if the connec-
tions between its elements are tight and snug if each part is locked
hard and fast to its neighboring parts. Continuity is not always a
virtue. It implies a strictly logical procedure, and it hints of an intel-
lect controlled by rationality. Obviously, therefore, too strict con-
tinuity is out of place in writing which attempts to seem spon-
taneously emotional and unstudiedly sincere. It precludes a quick,
nervous, energetic style. Often it gives writing clarity at the sacrifice
of strength. Furthermore, the tendency of modern writing is analytic
rather than synthetic; that is, modern writing is coming more and
more to consist of an accumulation of units rather than a nexus of
parts. And finally, an unbroken continuity is likely to weary the
reader.
1 The last three sentences contain transposed elements. The reader may care
to analyze their function and criticize their effectiveness.
Creative Writing
On the other hand, even in our generation of hasty readers and
impatient thinkers, some people demand logical writing instead of
nervous writing, and some subjects require rational consideration in-
stead of emotional contemplation. Moreover, writing in which no
strong controlling intellect is apparent throughout never has been,
and probably never will be, for a long time appealing. Even Shelley
(to take the first example that comes to mind), who is the most
purely lyric of the great English poets, felt the control of intellect.
An analysis of such lyrics as the "Ode to the West Wind," "The Sky-
lark," and "The Cloud" will reveal an amazingly solid and supple
intellectual structure underlying the airiness of the poems. It is true,
too, that the most powerful radicals and convincing innovators are
those who know the ways of conservatism. Nearly every worth-while
modernistic painter has had an early stage of conventionality, and
nearly every modern stylist has had his period of conservatism. It
can probably do nobody any harm, therefore, to learn a little about
the conservative style of writing for writing with smoothness of
continuity is conservative.
a. Continuity of Ideas. Continuity depends, first of all, on the
larger structure of the composition. In narration, it depends on a
simple following of the time sequence. In description, it depends on
the arrangement of details. In exposition, it depends on the arrange-
ment of ideas. We shall discuss only the last of these three forms
here.
It cannot be too often repeated that the easiest way to give smooth
continuity to style is to have a clear and rational structure in the
composition as a whole. When the parts of the composition are so
thought out and arranged that each part leads logically and inevita-
bly to the succeeding part, a writer will have little trouble in giving
continuity to his style.
There are, however, a few devices which help the writer achieve
this continuity. Some of these concern the continuity of ideas; some
the continuity of paragraphs; and some the continuity of sentences.
As for the first of these, the adoption of a certain order of pro-
cedure and adherence to it is the simplest and most effective.
For example, there may be an order of procedure altogether chrono-
Rationality in Style 58
logical; or the order may be from a general idea to particular illus-
trations of it; or it may be from the particular illustrations to the
general idea governing them; or it may be from simple toward
more and more complex ideas; or it may be from known or admitted
facts toward unknown or disputed facts; or it may be from an enu-
meration of points that are to be considered to an elaboration of
each of those points in turn. Which method the writer adopts will
depend upon his subject. But once he has chosen his method, he
ought to stick to it pretty closely throughout his work. If he does so,
he will find the minor problems of continuity much easier to solve,
and the reader will find the composition much pleasanter to follow.
b. Continuity Between Paragraphs. A more mechanical consid-
eration is that of continuity between paragraphs. The device most
commonly used to effect this continuity is the transitional sentence,
that is, a sentence which points both forward and back forward
toward the new paragraph, and back toward the preceding para-
graph. This paragraph begins with a transitional sentence. The
words "a more" indicate that something has preceded; the rest of
the sentence suggests the nature of the new paragraph. The second
paragraph in this section also begins with a transitional sentence. 2
A second device is the insertion of a short transitional paragraph
between two important paragraphs. Like the transitional sentence,
the transitional paragraph hints at something that has gone before,
and indicates the general outline of what is to follow. The fifth
paragraph in this section is a transitional paragraph; so is the para-
graph beginning on the next line.
c. Continuity Within the Paragraph. More varied than the de-
vices which make for continuity between paragraphs are those
which make for continuity within the paragraph that is, for con-
tinuity between sentences.
The first of these is the use of transitional words. In looking over
the present section, one would find that the transitional words al-
ready used are "therefore/' "furthermore," "that is," "finally/' "on
2 Occasionally the transitional sentence comes at the end of a paragraph in-
stead of at the beginning; but this type is uncommon, for it places an unimpor-
tant idea in the important end-position of the paragraph.
54 Creative Writing
the other hand/' "moreover," "too," "accordingly/* and "however."
This makes a sizable list, which may be supplemented from the fol-
lowing paragraph.
Somewhat akin to transitional words is the use of pronoun refer-
ences in one sentence to nouns in a preceding sentence. The pro-
nouns thus form a rational link between the two sentences. By way
of illustration, the paragraph just above begins, "The first of these"
with these referring to a noun in the preceding sentence. And the
first paragraph in this section contains several "it's" referring to
nouns in the preceding sentence. A better example follows:
The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train. One
day Orion saw them and became enamored and pursued them. In their
distress they prayed to the gods to change their form, and Jupiter turned
them into pigeons, and then made them a constellation in the sky. Though
their number was seven, only six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them,
it is said, left her place.
The reader conceives these four sentences as a large unit, quite un-
conscious of the subtle device which cements them.
A little different is the trick of repeating in one sentence important
words of the preceding sentence. An example, also from Bulfinch,
follows :
The story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is from the
Odyssey and other poems that we learn the fate of the other heroes. After
the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately fall, but receiving aid from
new allies still continued its resistance. One of these allies was Memnon,
the /Ethiopian prince, whose story we have already told. Another was
Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons. . . . Penthesilea slew many of the
bravest warriors, but was at last slain by Achilles. But when the hero bent
over his fallen foe, and contemplated her beauty, youth, and valor, he
bitterly regretted his victory. Thersites, an insolent brawler and dema-
gogue, ridiculed his grief, and was in consequence slain by the hero. 3
Such a weaving together of sentences becomes an even stronger
union when the repeated words are brought close to each other by
transposition. In the passage just quoted, for example, there would
8 The passages quoted are taken from chaps, xxvi and xxviii of Thomas Bui-
finch's The Age of Fable, 1855.
Rationality in Style 55
be a closer weave if the author had transposed his link-words in
some such fashion as the following:
It is from the Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the
other heroes, for the story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector. After
the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately fall, but continued its
resistance with aid received from new allies. One of these attics was
Memnon . . . etc.
This revised version carries the thought swiftly from sentence to
sentence with hardly a break. Bulfinch, however, had so simple a
theme that he needed no such powerful coupler to fasten his sen-
tences together, and so he dispensed with it. But in compositions
where the idea is knotty and the coherence difficult, it is an ex-
tremely useful device.
The repetition of a word from sentence to sentence may couple
together pairs of sentences. But it does not link together all the
sentences in a paragraph. This latter feat is accomplished when one
word is repeated from sentence to sentence throughout the para-
graph. This repeated word (or phrase) becomes a distinctive brand
burned on each sentence, and identifies that sentence as belonging
to the particular herd of sentences which go together to make up a
paragraph. We have spoken of this device in a preceding chapter,
but it will bear further illustration here. The following paragraph
from Matthew Arnold offers good examples not only of key-words
but of other devices of continuity already mentioned; the key-words
are capitalized, and the other transitional words are italicized:
This culture is more interesting and more far-reaching than that other,
which is founded solely on the scientific ardor for knowing. But it needs
times of faith and ardor, times when the intellectual horizon is opening
and widening all around us to flourish in. And is not the close and
bounded intellectual horizon within which we have long lived and moved
now lifted up, and are not new lights finding free passage to shine in upon
us? For a long time there was no passage for them to make their way in
upon us, and then it was of no use to think of adapting the world's action
to them. Where was the hope of making REASON AND THE WILL OF
GOD prevail among people who had a routine which they had christened
REASON AND THE WILL OF GOD, in which they were inextricably
bound, and beyond which they had no power of looking? But now the
56 Creative Writing
iron force of adhesion to the old routine social, political, religious has
wonderfully yielded; the iron force of exclusion of all which is new has
wonderfully yielded. The danger now is, not that people should obsti-
nately refuse to allow anything but their old routine to pass for REASON
AND THE WILL OF GOD, but either that they should allow some
novelty or other to pass for these too easily, or else that they should under-
rate the importance of them altogether, and think it enough to follow
action for its own sake, without troubling themselves to make REASON
AND THE WILL OF GOD prevail therein. Now, then, is the moment for
culture to be of service, culture which believes in making REASON AND
THE WILL OF GOD prevail, believes in perfection, is the study and
pursuit of perfection, and is no longer debarred by a rigid invincible
exclusion of whatever is new, from getting acceptance for its ideas, simply
because they are new.
One final device by which continuity may be obtained, though
it too has already been mentioned, will be discussed here. It is
parallel structure the expression of diverse ideas in so similar a
form that they have a seeming relation. The parallel structure may
be quite complex like a telescope with a tube within a tube within
a tube. Thus, parallel words may occur in parallel phrases, which
may occur in parallel clauses, which may occur in parallel sentences.
In the eighteenth century the device often took the form of an-
tithesis; it was revived in the late nineteenth century as a means of
unifying a sometimes impressionistic, highly individualistic prose.
Here is a passage from Henley (1890); note its multiple parallel-
isms:
Essayists, like poets, are born and not made, and for one worth remem-
bering the world is confronted with a hundred not worth reading. Your
true essayist is in a literary sense the friend of everybody. . . . He must
be personal, or his hearers can feel no manner of interest in him. He
must be candid and sincere, or his readers presently see through him.
He must have learned to think for himself and to consider his surroundings
with an eye that is both kindly and observant, or they straightway find his
company unprofitable. He should have fancy, or his starveling proposi-
tions will perish for lack of metaphor and the tropes and figures needed
to vitalize a truism. He does well to have humor, for humor makes men
brothers, and is perhaps more influential in an essay than in most places
else. He will find a little wit both servicable to himself and comfortable
to his readers. For wisdom, it is not absolutely necessary that he have it.
Rationality in Style 57
With this we may leave the discussion of rationality in style. The
whole subject demands only a clear understanding of just what one
wishes to say, a clear knowledge of a few mechanical principles, and
a little care in applying the principles.
EXERCISES
1. Control.
Organize each of the following groups of ideas into a sentence with
one of the elements in the controlling structure; then organize the
same ideas into another sentence with a different element as the
controlling structure; and so on with each idea listed:
a. He read out to me the scheme of another book.
He had been ill.
He had laid the scheme aside long ago.
b. His past came back to him in pictures.
His boyhood returned first of all.
He saw again his old home.
c. The sweat broke out upon his forehead.
A sudden truth had come to him.
He knew that he hated this woman.
d. I desired to mix with the crowd.
I longed to listen to the life-throbs of the world.
I went back to the city.
e. We choose traits from many imperfect individuals.
These we put together.
Thus we form an ideal.
We are like painters or sculptors.
2. Structure. See the following exercise.
3. Position.
Recast the following sentences so as to make thought-value and
structure-value consistent. Where clarity permits, put the important
idea in the end-position.
a. All the student's financial affairs are handled by his parents;
therefore, the student is relieved of all financial responsibility.
b. Virtually cast into a new world and thrown on his own resources,
the student overdraws his allowance at the bank once or twice, thus
learning the virtues of economy.
c. These are vivid principles such as are remembered and applied
throughout the life of the student.
68 Creative Writing
d. When a horse is in the process of jumping over a fence, he brings
his hind feet forward.
e. He is a man who is endowed with abilities of an extraordinary
nature.
f. He was a good rider, but he could not stay on that horse.
g. Very often when I was a child I would slip into the bathroom,
where I would occupy myself watching my father perform the morn-
ing ritual of shaving.
h. Dr. Pinkham is not really tall; but he is thin, and his thinness
causes him to look taller than he is.
i. I finished college having a grossly exaggerated sense of my own
importance.
j. The sandwiches were ordered, and they were soon placed be-
fore us by the waiter.
k. On our way to town we paused in the city park, which was
glowing with dahlias, chrysanthemums, and purple gay-feathers.
1. Uncle Ned appears to be heart-broken, but he gives that im-
pression at every funeral, and so no one pays any attention to him.
m. He looked over the side of the plane, only to see people scatter-
ing in all directions, or looking anxiously up, as if they feared the
worst.
n. My brother is a wearer of a fraternity emblem, and I myself
hope to be, like him, a member of a fraternity; yet I must admit that
I am not entirely in favor of fraternities.
o. As yet his belief in himself has not proved to be a confidence
which has been misplaced.
Experiment with transpositions in the following sentences, and study
the different effects you obtain:
a. There is no such music in all the range of English verse, seek
where you will, as there is in Swinburne.
b. As yet the great art of self-embellishment is for us Englishmen
but in its infancy.
c. They added a musical note to my joyous mood.
d. The first rule for a good style is that the author should have
something valuable to say.
e. I swung from place to place in happy, lightsome mood, blithe as
a fairy prince in quest of adventures.
4. Continuity.
a. What arrangement of ideas would you adopt to gain continuity
of idea in compositions on the following subjects:
The Negro in modern literature.
Rationality in Style 59
The American Punitive Expedition into Mexico in 1916.
How to play football.
Communism in America.
The meaning of recent economic developments in America.
Types of sailing vessels.
Types of students.
b. Write transitional sentences or paragraphs to connect the para-
graphs suggested by each of the topic sentences in the following
groups:
(1) Creative intelligence requires for its full realization a
mature civilization.
We have disproved the romantic delusion of the free creative
savage.
Primitive society was not all bad.
Primitive man had a grasp of some of our elemental truths.
(2) The average man thinks only about his daily business.
The Greeks discovered a world-order, a "cosmos."
Within the framework of their "cosmos" the Greeks discovered
abstract science.
The Greeks did not discover natural science.
(3) The art of the novel is a young art.
The novel has taken its place among the arts.
The young novelist of todoy has enormous chances.
The novelist must beware of his chief enemy the excessive
admiration of people without taste.
(4) Most plays now produced by the commercial theatre are
trash.
The first object of every play producer is to make money.
It is said that the public likes trash.
The public taste for good music and good art is increasing.
(5) The world about us contains individual things.
It is easy to define individuality.
It is not easy to describe an individual.
c. Give continuity to the sentences in the following paragraph by
using as many transitional devices as you can. Combine sentences if
you wish:
Only one circumstance induces us to notice this most un-
pleasant book. The author evidently has ability to do better. He
does not write with much skill. The writer does not seem to
understand the poor people whom he describes. He does not
sympathize with them. He has sharp eyes for details. He does
30 Creative Writing
not penetrate the superficial dirt of toil and poverty. He grossly
exaggerates the vices of the poor. We cannot accept his char-
acters as typical. One thing he has done beyond all doubt. Rough
and inartistic, the novelist has used violent color and the blackest
of black shadows. He has succeeded in drawing a figure who
sticks with painful reality in the memoiy. Liza is a factory girl
of eighteen, who lived in a Lambeth slum. The portrait of this
girl is complete and strong. Her ghost refuses to be laid. The
writer has achieved much.
Garbled paragraph from a review of
Somerset Maugham's Liza of Lambeth,
in Literature, November 6, 1897.
d. Write a paragraph on some subject suggested in the exercises
at the end of Chapter I. Use a key-word throughout the paragraph.
Or try to rewrite the garbled paragraph just above so that it will have
a key- word.
e. Try to give the sentences in the garbled paragraph above, or
in some paragraph that you have previously written, as many parallel
structures as possible.
CHAPTER III
Vigor in Style
Smoothness, beauty, and vigor are all terms ofjipproval. But they
are not the same thing, for a piece of writing may have any one of
the three without having the others. Indeed, the presence of the last
may often exclude the others. In the following delightful passage,
Stevenson has adopted the smooth and easy style of the familiar es-
sayist which, though not languid, would certainly never be described
as essentially vigorous and forceful:
And what would it be to grow old? For, after a certain distance, every
step we take in life we find the ice growing thinner below our feet, and
all around us and behind us we see our contemporaries going through. By
the time a man gets well into the seventies, his continued existence is a
mere miracle; and when he lays his old bones in bed for the night, there
is an overwhelming probability that he will never see the day. Do the old
men mind it, as a matter of fact? Why, no. They were never the merrier;
they have their grog at night, and tell the raciest stories; they hear of the
death of people about their own age, or even younger, not as if it was a
grisly warning, but with a simple childlike pleasure at having outlived
someone else; and when a draught might puff them out like a guttering
candle, or a bit of a stumble shatter them like so much glass, their old
hearts keep sound and unaffrighted, and they go on, bubbling with laugh-
ter, through years of man's age compared to which the valley at Balaclava
was as safe and peaceful as a village cricket-green on Sunday. It may
fairly be questioned (if we look to the peril only) whether it was a much
more daring feat for Curtius to plunge into the gulf, than for any old
gentleman of ninety to doff his clothes and clamber into bed. 1
Compare this graceful passage with a paragraph from Carlyle:
All true Work is sacred; in all true Work, were it but true hand-labor,
there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the Earth, has its summit
1 From "JEs Triplex," in the volume Virginibus Puerisque. Reprinted by per-
mission of Charles Scribner's Sons.
61
68 Creative Writing
in Heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain,
sweat of the heart; which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton medi-
tations, all Sciences, all spoken Epics, all acted Heroisms, Martyrdoms,
up to that "Agony of blood sweat," which all men have called divine! O
brother, if this is not "worship," then I say, the more pity for worship; for
this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky. Who art thou that
complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied
brother; see thy fellow Workmen there, in God's Eternity; surviving there,
they alone surviving: sacred Band of the Immortals, Celestial Bodyguard
of the Empire of Mankind. Even in the weak Human Memory they sur-
vive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peopling,
they alone, the unmeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven, though
severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind, as a noble Mother; as that Spartan
Mother, saying while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my son, or
upon it!" Thou too shall return home in honor, doubt it not, if in the
battle thou keep thy shield!
How vigorous, how energetic it is! Rude, uncouth, and inelegant,
yet it burns with strength and vebemence. But Carlyle did not al-
ways write thus, as a study of some of his letters and of his earlier
work will show.
Many a time, likewise, every writer must choose between two
types of style. Patrick Henry did not invariably use the Give-me-
liberty-or-give-me-death style; and Theodore Roosevelt could pen
quaint little epistles to his children. The style to be used depends,
of course, on the subject. A description of a tropical hurricane would
require one sort of style; a description of Lake Placid in the moon-
light would require another. A speech demanding war would re-
quire one sort of style; a funeral oration on a sweet old lady would
require another. An argument in favor of scientific as opposed to
liberal education would require one sort of style; an essay on the
pleasures of fishing would require another.
Indeed, there are as many styles as there are kinds of subjects.
To catalogue them would be both impossible and useless. Yet we
may quite profitably study the elements of writing which contribute
toward making, on the one hand, for vigor of style, and, on the
other, for beauty of style. We shall begin with the first.
1. INTELLECTUAL VIGOR. In a way, the two words just written look
absurd in a book of advice about writing. For advice, however good,
Vigor in Style 63
cannot create intellectual vigor in anybody. A cynic would say, as a
matter of fact, that a writer who has any intellectual vigor needs no
advice. Perhaps the cynic would be right. We have all seen beautiful
girls who would be beautiful under any conditions, and need no
artificial make-up or professional advice to help them. Nevertheless,
even these beauties look their best under certain favorable (and
frequently quite artificial ) conditions. Moreover, we have seen girls
who are not beautiful unless they have certain advantages of dress,
light, or make-up, but who are undeniably beautiful when they
have these advantages. Advice about intellectual vigor of style is like
advice about beauty. A few writers do not need it; most writers
can profit by it; and some writers would be nothing without it.
a. Labored Intellectuality. It is paradoxical and unjust, but la-
boriousness of style often conveys a stronger impression of intel-
lectual vigor than does ease of style. Laboriousness consisting of in-
versions, transpositions, difficult structures, relationships not easily
grasped, long or involved sentences, superfine discriminations,
parenthetical explanations all of these have a tremendous effect
on a large body of readers. True, they sometimes hide poverty of
idea and muddiness of intellect; yet they do have a legitimate use
among shrewd or crafty authors. In mock-serious writing, they create
a humorous incongruity between actual triviality of idea and the
apparently intellectual style. In public life, they make simple facts
appear important when policy demands that they appear so, or they
take the edge off truths which would cut sharply if not framed la-
boriously. And they impress the class of people who must be im-
pressed sometimes, but who cannot be impressed by honest sim-
plicity.
The following paragraph from Cabell's foreword to his Figures of
Earth shows how a skillful writer may deliberately employ a la-
bored, mock-serious style to create an effect of sententiousness:
To you (whom I take to be as familiar with the Manuelian cycle of
romance as is any person now alive) it has for some while appeared, I
know, a not uncurious circumstance that in the Key to the Popular Tales
of Poictesme there should have been included so little directly relative to
Manuel himself. No reader of the Popular Tales (as I recall your saying at
64 Creative Writing
the Alum when we talked over, among so many other matters, this monu-
mental book) can fail to note that always Don Manuel looms obscurely in
the background, somewhat as do King Arthur and white-bearded Charle-
magne in their several cycles, dispensing justice and bestowing rewards,
and generally arranging the future, for the survivors of the outcome of
stories which more intimately concern themselves with Anavalt and Goth
and Holden, or even with Sclaug and Thragnar, than with the liege-lord
of Poictesme. 2
This next paragraph, taken from an editorial in the daily paper,
garbs a few simple truths in a highly laborious style:
The resignation of Judge L affords a revelation of the unwisdom
of the legislature in making an excessive reduction in the salaries of mem-
bers of the judiciary. Rejecting the advice of prominent members of the
bar of the State, of many other responsible citizens, and of most of the
newspapers, the last session of the legislature cut the compensation of
judges to such an extent that it was inevitable many of the abler judges
would leave the service of the State. Unfortunately, Judge L is one
of those who find it impossible to make the financial sacrifice that is re-
quired of judiciary members who serve under the new schedule of salaries.
This could be translated:
Judge L 's resignation shows the unwisdom of the legislature in
reducing the salaries of judges. Rejecting the advice of prominent lawyers,
other responsible citizens, and most newspapers of the State, the legis-
lature cut salaries of judges so sharply that withdrawal by many of the
abler judges became inevitable. Unfortunately, Judge L was one
of the judges who could not afford to serve under the reduced salary
schedule.
The first version contains 111 words; the second, 67 words a
reduction of 40 per cent. The editor who wrote the first version was
excusable only because he wanted to make his editorial sound as
important as possible to people who cared little for style.
Unfortunately, the following sentences, though amusing, are seri-
ous examples of the way in which facts are often concealed by an
elaborately intellectual style: "Conditions now prevailing prevent
us from giving a favorable reply to your request" ( equals, No ) ; "In
the face of bitter enemy resistance, our ground forces made con-
2 Copyright, 1921, by James Branch Cabell. Reprinted by permission of Mr.
Cabell's publishers, Robert McBride and Company.
Vigor in Style 65
siderable gains" (equals, We advanced slightly); "In a frenzied
suicide attack of massed thousands, the enemy was able to penetrate
our lines a few hundred yards" (equals, They advanced slightly);
"Our rapidly advancing forces seized two major rail centers"
(equals, We took two towns); "Our advance patrols penetrated two
enemy villages, and returned safely to our lines" (equals, They re-
took them ) .
To call the passages quoted above vigorous writing would be
false, and to call them intellectual would be flattering. But they do
have a spurious sort of intellectuality that deceives a certain type of
reader. And the kind of writing they represent is worth knowing
about if only for the sake of its being avoided.
Yet in their deliberate shamming of intellectual vigor, they are,
perhaps, superior to the writing which is so intellectual as to be
incomprehensible. For instance, the abstruse intellectuality of the
following passage, taken from a public lecture by a philosophy pro-
fessor, is inexcusable:
That which is given at any moment is a perceptual perspective with an
organism at the focus or center. The perspective called "mine" is mine
only in virtue of the fact that the body called "mine" is, although only one
factor among others, the focal factor of the perspective. It is the focal fac-
tor because even though at times the body is not given (as when we are
said not to be self-conscious but absorbed in the "objective world") it can
easily be "recovered," and because while the body varies with the other
factors of the perspective, the other factors of the perspective seem to
vary in an even greater degree with changes in the body.
When the reader of good intelligence cannot quickly understand
what a writer is talking about, it is the writer's fault. If the reader
must ponder, wonder, reread, and then at last remain in doubt, the
writing is bad.
b. True Intellectuality. Leaving this false or deceiving sort of
intellectuality, we may pass on to a kind of style which shows an
authentic intellectual vigor. Description of this style is difficult, and
advice about how to achieve it almost futile. A seed catalogue I pick
up is definitely non-intellectual in style:
The popularity this plant has gained in the short time since its intro-
duction is simply marvelous. It is one of the finest decorative plants ever
66 Creative Writing
introduced. It grows rapidly under all conditions, and its inexpensiveness
places it within the reach of everyone. The plant has often been called
"Fountain Fern" on account of its gracefully drooping habit. It has ma-
tured fronds that often attain a length of four feet.
Nobody can justly complain about the clarity and the simplicity
of this passage. It serves its purpose of conveying information, and
it is in keeping with its lowly position in the world of letters. But
nobody would think of it as having an intellectually vigorous style.
Let us analyze it to try to discover what characteristics it has, and
what it lacks.
In idea, it is concrete rather than abstract; it states simple, un-
original facts of observation such as anybody might make; it really
develops no idea; it gives no independent opinions; it draws no in-
ferences and makes no generalizations from presented data; it
delves into none of the complexities of idea which might suggest
themselves; and it deals with obviously unimportant ideas.
In structure, its sentences are short; only two sentences are com-
plex; and one sentence is compound only by having two unrelated
ideas joined by the ever useful "and." It has no transitional devices,
no transpositions, no parallel structures indicating a synthetical in-
telligence at work, no variety of structure suggesting variety of idea.
Now contrast the passage from the seed catalogue with the fol-
lowing paragraph from Matthew Arnold:
I am going to ask whether the present movement for ousting letters
from their old predominance in education, and for transferring the pre-
dominance in education to the natural sciences, whether this brisk and
flourishing movement ought to prevail, and whether it is likely in the end
it really will prevail. An objection may be raised which I will anticipate.
My own studies have been almost wholly in letters, and my visits to the
field of the natural sciences have been very slight and inadequate, al-
though those sciences have always strongly moved my curiosity. A man of
letters, it will perhaps be said, is not competent to discuss the comparative
merits of letters and natural science as means of education. To this objec-
tion, I reply, first of all, that his incompetence, if he attempts the discus-
sion but is really incompetent for it, will be abundantly visible; nobody
will be taken in; he will have plenty of sharp observers and critics who will
save mankind from that danger. But the line I am going to follow is, as
you will soon discover, so extremely simple, that perhaps it may be fol-
Vigor in Style 67
lowed without failure even by one who for a more ambitious line of
discussion would be quite incompetent.
It sounds original because it expresses personal opinions and per-
sonal experience. The first personal pronoun or adjective is used no
less than seven times in the passage, and, in addition, it is implied
in all the sentences about "a man of letters/' The ideas presented
are not mere concrete records of observation, but are ideas involving
generalizations about facts. They are ideas with many complex
facets of which the author is aware, and which he is willing to de-
velop. And they are ideas of wide importance because they involve
the thought and the conduct of great masses of human beings.
In structure, the sentences are long enough to avoid seeming
childish: they average thirty-four words in length, whereas the sen-
tences from the seed catalogue averaged only fourteen words. In
the entire passage, there is no simple sentence, and no sentence com-
pounded of only two simple independent clauses joined by "and."
Throughout there are inversions for the sake of clarity, interpola-
tions for the sake of completeness, and transitional devices for the
sake of continuity. In a word, the author seems aware in the passage
of the involved complexities, the many different points of view, the
subtle significances which surround ideas. The world to him is not
a lesson in the obvious. Moreover, he suggests the variety and com-
plexity of the world by the variety and complexity of his sentence-
elements; yet he shows the power of his intellect by fusing these
various aspects of the world into a coherent and unified piece of
writing.
This kind of style, however, is not the only kind that is intellec-
tually vigorous. As a matter of fact, whether for good or for ill, this
kind of style is seldom used nowadays in writing for the general
public. It is used in writing intended for specialists the "new"
critics, modern philosophers, psychologists, and specialized scholars.
Another kind of vigorously intellectual style involves the use of
antithetical structure offering mutually opposing views of the same
idea. This device nearly always gives to writing a touch of sober
strength, of rationality, of unhurried power. It shows a mind well
balanced, unprejudiced, and unsparing. Dr. Johnson, the dominating
68 Creative Writing
figure of the Age of Reason, the ponderous philosopher whose opin-
ions were like the heavy hand of law on a hundred years of litera-
ture Dr. Johnson seldom penned a line which contained no judi-
ciously balanced antithetical structure. Paragraph after paragraph
unwinds in the manner of the following criticism of Dryden:
Criticism, either didactic or defensive, occupies almost all his prose,
except those pages he has devoted to his patrons; but none of his prefaces
were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style,
in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are
never balanced, nor the periods modeled; every word seems to drop by
chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid;
the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous; what is little is gay, what is
great is splendid. He may be thought to mention himself too frequently;
but, while he forces himself upon our esteem, we cannot refuse him to
stand high in his own. Everything is excused by the play of images and
the sprightliness of expression. Though all is easy, nothing is feeble;
though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh; and though since his
earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet
uncouth or obsolete.
This kind of writing is hardly to be imitated on a large scale; it is
neither spontaneous, nor emotional, nor imaginative. But it is power-
ful. Nobody reading it can suspect the writer of having a weak intel-
lect or undigested opinions. And one has only to contrast it with
any book review in the Sunday newspaper to see why Dr. Johnson
is immortal, and the reviewer is not.
So far we have dealt with the studied and elaborate sentence
structure of vigorous intellect. But, on the other hand, a vigorously
intellectual style may be just the opposite in its simplicity from the
complex passages quoted above. When a writer is sure that his ideas
in themselves are powerful, he need have only a direct, straight-
forward style which pounds away at the reader with simple, power-
ful logic, and simple, powerful facts.
Let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to
that which is good. Be kindly affectioned to one another with brotherly
love; in honour preferring one another; not slothful in business; fervent in
spirit; serving the Lord; rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continu-
ing instant in prayer; distributing to the necessity of saints; given to hospi-
Vigor in Style 69
tality. Bless them which persecute you: bless, and curse not. Rejoice with
them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep. Be of the same mind
one toward another. Mind not high things, but condescend to men of low
estate. Be not wise in your own conceits. Recompense to no man evil for
evil. Provide things honest in the sight of all men. If it be possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men. Dearly beloved, avenge
not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Venge-
ance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hun-
ger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap
coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with
good.
In this passage from Paul's Epistle to the Romans is so much meat,
so much weight of idea and power of logic that the writing needs
no subtlety of style, no complexity of structure, no variety of form to
give it vigor.
In this next (a letter from the anonymous Junius to Sir William
Draper, who had taken it upon himself to reply to Junius's attacks
on political abuses of the day ) strength of idea and of feeling like-
wise makes superfluous any style but the most straight and hard-
hitting:
25. September, 1769.
SIR,
After so long an interval, I did not expect to see the debate revived
between us. My answer to your last letter shall be short; for I write to you
with reluctance, and I hope we shall now conclude our correspondence
for ever.
Had you been originally and without provocation attacked by an anony-
mous writer, you would have some right to demand his name. But in this
cause you are a volunteer. You engaged in it with the unpremeditated
gallantry of a soldier. You were content to set your name in opposition to
a man, who would probably continue in concealment. You understood the
terms upon which we were to correspond, and gave at least a tacit consent
to them. After voluntarily attacking me under the character of Junius,
what possible right have you to know me under any other? . . .
You cannot but know that the republication of my letters was no more
than a catchpenny contrivance of a printer, in which it was impossible I
should be concerned, and for which I am in no way answerable. At the
same time I wish you to understand that if I do not take the trouble of
reprinting these papers, it is not from any fear of giving offense to
Sir William Draper.
70 Creative Writing
Your remarks upon a signature, adopted merely for distinction, are
unworthy of notice; but when you tell me I have submitted to be called
a liar and a coward, I must ask you in my turn, whether you seriously
think it any way incumbent on me to take notice of the silly invectives of
every simpleton, who writes in a news-paper; and what opinion you would
have conceived of my discretion, if I had suffered myself to be the dupe
of so shallow an artifice? . . .
JUNIUS
These, then, are the two styles which may be justly said to have
intellectual vigor. One style is involved, the other direct; one is
complex, the other simple; one is subtle, the other forceful; one is
studied and various, the other plain and uniform. One expresses
ideas important for their originality, for their discriminating per-
ception, for their keen intuitiveness, for their nice logic. The other
expresses ideas important for their sincerity, for their open clarity,
for their blunt power, for their obvious truth. One is the result of
an astute mind at work on difficult and intricate problems; the other
is the result of a strong mind at work on elemental truths.
2. EMOTIONAL VIGOR. In real life we convey ideas to one another
by means of words, and we convey emotions not merely by means
of words, but also of gestures, tones of the voice, expressions of the
face, movements of the body sometimes quite unconscious. But in
writing, we must convey emotions to one another by means of words
alone. To accomplish this, we have, first of all, to convince the reader
that we ourselves feel emotion. For people are like a herd of ani-
mals: fright, curiosity, or anger on the part of one is conveyed subtly
to the whole herd. All that is necessary is that the herd be aware
of the emotional state of one of its members.
The first business, therefore, of a writer who wishes to make his
reader have an emotion, is to make the reader feel that the writer
has the emotion. It is not sufficient that the writer merely have the
emotion; he must make readers believe he has it, and thus convey
the emotion to them. The devices by which readers are made to be-
lieve that the writer feels emotion are so varied that they can be
discussed in only the most general way. It is obvious, however, that
all emotions may be divided into two groups: those which are not
in harmony with the intellect, and those which are aided and abetted
Vigor in Style 71
by the intellect. Thus, a man may be so angry at an automobile
engine that he could strike it with a hammer. That is a feeling not in
harmony with the intellect. On the other hand, the man may be
angry at an example of injustice and oppression in his daily life, and
he may find that the more he weighs and considers the condition
intellectually, the angrier he becomes. Here his feeling harmonizes
with intellect, and grows the more powerful for intellectual influ-
ence.
a. Uncontrolled Emotion. To convince the reader that the writer
feels uncontrolled emotion, a writer would use certain forms of ex-
pression that he would not use in trying to convey the other sort of
emotion. For instance, he would not employ long, involved sen-
tences, elaborate sentence structures, devices for effecting smooth
continuity, and so on. His writing would be rough, breathless, ex-
clamatory sentences short or incomplete, relation between sen-
tences obscure, transition from sentence to sentence, idea to idea,
and image to image abrupt and unplanned. This sort of violent
incoherence is Carlyle's chief trick in writing. The following para-
graph, chosen almost at random, is an excellent example of his
vigorously emotional style. The semicolons and colons in the passage
help deceive the reader's eye; but they have actually the effect of
periods, as reading the passage aloud will prove:
No Dilettantism in this Mahomet; it is a business of Reprobation and
Salvation with him, of Time and Eternity: he is in deadly earnest about
it! Dilettantism, hypothesis, speculation, a kind of amateur-search for
Truth, toying and coquetting with Truth: this is the sorest sin. The root
of all other imaginable sins. It consists in the heart and soul of the man
never having been open to the Truth; "living in vain show." Such a
man not only utters and produces falsehoods, but is himself a falsehood.
The rational moral principle, spark of the Divinity, is sunk deep in him,
in quiet paralysis of life-death. The very falsehoods of Mahomet are truer
than the truths of such a man. He is the insincere man: smooth-polished,
respectable in some times and places: inoffensive, says nothing harsh to
anybody; most cleanly, just as carbonic acid is, which is death and
poison.
Ruskin has a passage of similar emotional incoherence which, ex-
cept that it is more subdued, might have been written by Carry le:
72 Creative Writing
Their labor, their sorrow, and their death. Mark the three. Labor: by
sea and land, in field and city, at forge and furnace, at helm and plough.
No pastoral indolence nor classic pride shall stand between him and the
troubling of the world; still less between him and the toil of his country,
blind, tormented, unwearied, marvellous England.
Also their Sorrow: Ruin of all their glorious work, passing away of their
thoughts and their honor, mirage of pleasure, FALLACY OF HOPE;
gathering of weed on temple step; gaining of wave on deserted strand;
weeping of the mother for the children, desolate by her breathless first-
born in the streets of the city, desolate by her last sons slain, among the
beasts of the field.
And their Death. That old Greek question again; yet unanswered.
The unconquerable spectre still flitting among the forest trees at twilight;
rising ribbed out of the sea-sand; white, a strange Aphrodite, out of
the sea-foam; stretching its gray, cloven wings among the clouds; turning
the light of their sunsets into blood.
The short, sharp style of Dr. Johnson in his letter to Macpherson
is another example of the same sort of emotionally vigorous writing:
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
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 public, which I here dare you to refute. Your rage I defy. Your abili-
ties, since your Homer, 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.
This sort of writing is not common anywhere except in short pas-
sages. Carlyle, indeed, is the only important English writer who con-
sistently used it on a grand scale. But it is an extremely useful piece
of equipment for a writer to have available when he needs it.
b. Governed Emotion. Much more frequent than the style repre-
sented in these passages is emotional writing showing a strict har-
mony between feeling and intellect. This harmony manifests itself
in two ways in pattern and in imagery.
(1) Pattern consists, essentially, of repeats. One line (thus: /)
does not make a pattern; nor do two different kinds of lines (thus:
Vigor in Style 73
/). But a series of similar lines repeated (thus: /////) makes
pattern. Likewise, a series of similar structures, sounds, or accents
makes a pattern in sentences.
For some psychological reason too complex to be discussed here,
the human mind under emotional strain tends to express itself in
patterns, usually of sounds. The simple beat of tom-toms, the keen-
ings of Celtic women over their dead, the waving of garments, the
repetition of exclamations, the steps of a dance and so on up to
the complex repeats and rhythms of meter, alliteration, and rhyme
in poetry all these are patterns in which human emotion expresses
itself. In prose, these patterns consist of rhythms ( which will be dis-
cussed more fully later), parallel structures, and repetitions.
Hebrew poetry consists of parallel structures expressing over and
over again different aspects of the same idea. Since much of the
Bible is poetry, much of it is made up of such parallelisms. For ex-
ample:
Give unto the Lord, O ye mighty, give unto the Lord glory and
strength.
Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name; worship the Lord in
the beauty of holiness.
The voice of the Lord is upon the waters: the God of glory thundereth:
the Lord is upon many waters.
The voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of
majesty.
The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars; yea, the Lord breaketh the
cedars of Lebanon.
This trick of repetition is carried over into the prose parts of the
Bible. Paul writes:
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not
charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries
and all knowledge: and though I have all faith, so that I could remove
mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give
my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunt-
eth not itself, is not puffed up,
74 Creative Writing
Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily
provoked, thinketh no evil;
Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;
Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all
things.
It is natural for writers laboring under a strong emotion which
is at the same time validated by intellect to speak in these patterned
structures; but it is particularly true that writers of the Anglo-Saxon
tradition, whose style has been influenced for centuries by the King
James Bible, resort continually to this style. Hardly a paragraph
from any great English stylist is free of it, and seldom any great
emotional moment is without it.
The passage from Junius, quoted above, is an example of power-
ful emotion formulating itself into parallel structure. And the fol-
lowing from Huxley is an excellent example of a style manifesting in
its complex and long-sustained elements a genuine intellectual vigor,
and at the same time manifesting in its patterned structures an ex-
traordinary emotional vigor:
The improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to acknowledge
authority, as such. For him, scepticism is the highest of duties; blind
faith the one unpardonable sin. And it cannot be otherwise, for every
great advance in natural knowledge has involved the absolute rejection
of authority, the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation of
the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of science holds his
firmest convictions, not because the men he most venerates hold them;
not because their verity is testified by portents and wonders; but because
his experience teaches him that whenever he chooses to bring these con-
victions into contact with their primary source, Nature whenever he
thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and to observation
Nature will confirm them. The man of science has learned to believe in
justification, not by faith, but by verification.
Very similar is Dr. Johnson's letter to Chesterfield, which should
be contrasted with the letter to Macpherson already quoted. The last
two paragraphs of the Chesterfield letter follow:
Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, en-
cumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take
Vigor in Style 75
of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed
till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot
impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical
asperity, not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received,
or to be unwilling that the Publick should consider me as owing that to a
Patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.
Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any
favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude
it, if less be possible, with less; for I have long wakened from that dream
of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most humble,
Most obedient servant.
This next, from Ruskin, almost too long to quote, is a magnificent
example of an intricately intellectual style which flames with emo-
tion. It shows that the two types of vigorous writing intellectual
and emotional need not be mutually exclusive:
Stand upon the peak of some isolated mountain at daybreak, when the
flight mists first rise from off the plains, and watch their white and lake-
like fields, as they float in level bays and winding gulfs about the islanded
summits of the lower hills, untouched yet by more than dawn, colder and
more quiet than a windless sea under the moon of midnight, watch when
the first sunbeam is sent upon the silver channels, how the foam of their
undulating surfaces parts and passes away, and down under their depths
the glittering city and green pasture lie like Atlantis, between the white
paths of winding rivers; the flakes of light falling every moment faster
and broader among the starry spires, as the wreathed surges break and
vanish above them, and the confused crests and ridges of the dark hills
shorten their gray shadows upon the plain. . . . Wait a little longer, and
you shall see those scattered mists rallying in the ravines, and floating up
towards you, along the winding valleys, till they crouch in quiet masses,
iridescent with the morning light, upon the broad breasts of the higher
hills, whose leagues of massy undulation will melt back and back into
that robe of material light, until they fade away, lost in its lustre, to ap-
pear again above, in serene heaven, like a wild, bright, impossible dream,
foundationless and inaccessible, their very bases vanishing in the unsub-
stantial and mocking blue of the deep lake below. . . . Wait yet a little
longer, and you shall see those mists gather themselves into white towers,
and stand like fortresses along the promontories, massy and motionless,
only piled with every instant higher and higher into the sky, and casting
longer shadows athwart the rocks.
76 Creative Writing
(2) It is to be noted that one source of emotion in this passage
is its imagery. Indeed, it is characteristic of human beings not only
to create patterns of sound or form in times of emotion, but also to
vision forth images. Notice how, in the following extract from
Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," the adven-
turer's imagination is vivified by a sudden emotion:
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While on the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight! . . .
Not see? because of night perhaps? why, day
Came back for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,
"Now stab and end the creature to the heft!"
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears,
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all.
Most of Whitman's poetry is a catalogue of images envisioned in
moments of emotion. Here is an example from "A Song of Joys":
the joy of my spirit it is uncaged it darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
1 will have thousands of globes and all time.
O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!
To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle,
the laughing locomotive!
To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.
Vigor in Style 77
O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!
The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh
stillness of the woods,
The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through
the forenoon! . . .
O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!
In the well-known Twenty-third Psalm, note the wealth of im-
agery that pours from a mind undergoing emotion:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside
the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil: for thou art with me: thv rod and thv staff thev comfort me.
J * V
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
The characteristic of these passages is not so much completeness
and accuracy of observation, as it is richness of imagination. Not
one completely developed picture appears, but a teeming variety of
pictures which follow, one after the other, in rapid procession. The
truly emotional mind seldom lingers on one subject and describes it
meticulously, detail by detail. Such a mind leaps, rather, from one
object to another, vivifying each in a bold flash of imagination, sug-
gesting each with a single phrase or epithet, and then passing on
quickly so that in the end a score of images flash in and out of the
mind of the reader.
These images are often figurative. The imagination is not content
to restrict itself to the presentation of pictures as they exist, but
transforms the pictures into something different, and yet similar.
This ability to transform, this facility in creating a multitude of com-
parisons, this high emotion which sees resemblances where the com-
monplace mind sees only separate and distinct existences this is
the trait in a writer which makes for the highest poetry and the most
78 Creative Writing
stirring prose. Francis Thompson, the mystic poet, is remembered
chiefly for the daring leap of his imagination which marks breath-
taking resemblances between objects never before spoken of in the
same breath, Thus, in his poetry, God becomes a hound pursuing
his quarry; a poppy is a "yawn of fire"; the poet's thought runs "be-
fore the hooves of sunrise"; and the setting sun becomes a "globed
yellow grape" which Evening "bursts against her stained mouth."
Good prose writers use figurative language much more than the
average person believes. Following is a paragraph from Washing-
ton Irving, with the figures in italics:
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the
Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appa-
lachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to
a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change
of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, pro-
duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains,
and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky;
but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will
gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays
of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
This next simple piece of description ( from Stevenson ) indicates a
mind vividly alive and strenuously alert to catch and translate every
image in nature:
While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady wind, as long as a heavy
sigh, poured direct out of the quarter of the morning. It was cold, and
set me sneezing. The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its
passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine along the edge of
the hill rock slightly to and fro against the golden east. Ten minutes after,
the sunlight spread at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and
sparkles, and the day had come completely. 3
In this next, by H. M. Tomlinson, the scene described excites a
vigorous emotion which manifests itself in picturesque figures of
speech:
3 From Travels with a Donkey (1879). Reprinted here by permission of
Charles Scribner's Sons.
Vigor in Style 79
The berg rose out of the level forest by the river, and to Colet it was
anomalous. It was an isolated mass of white limestone, a lofty island in
the ocean of jungle. Its pale cliffs fell sheer to the green billows. Its sum-
mit was flat, but was so near to the clouds that its trees were but a dark
undulating strip. Its walls, when glimpses from below through breaks in
the roof of the forest could be found, appeared to overhang, but there
were scarves and girdles of green on their bare ribs. An eagle soaring
athwart its loftier crags was a drifting mote. Stalactites were pendent
before the black portJiolcs of caves in upper stories, like corbels over the
outlooks of a castle of the sagas. If the number of those dark apertures
meant anything, then the berg was hollow, was honeycombed with cavi-
ties. This enormity was not inviting, even in a morning light; not in such
a land as that. The unexplored dungeons of such a castle might hide any-
thing. 4
With this we shall leave the problem of emotional vigor in writ-
ing. Abrupt and incoherent writing, patterned writing, profuse im-
ages, original and vivid figures of speech these are the best indica-
tions of emotional vigor in writing.
EXERCISES
1. Intellectual Vigor.
a. Write in an intellectually laborious style a mock-serious account
of some trivial campus or local happening.
In the same kind of style, write a serious account of the same hap-
pening. Try to make it seem of genuine importance.
Suppose you are the editor of your college newspaper. You wish
to make a sharp criticism of some campus occurrence or custom, but
you do not wish to offend anyone. By means of an editorial written
in an intellectual style, accomplish your purpose.
b. Write an essay on some subject which has many purely reflective
rather than merely informational complexities, and which will demand
much original thinking on your part. Try to do justice to the com-
plexities by developing them properly in a mature and thoughtful
style. Choose such subjects as the following:
What have we a right to believe?
An examination of the philosophy of optimism.
Culture and a democracy.
4 From chap, xxxi of Gallions Reach ( 1927 ) . Reprinted here by permission of
the publishers, Harper & Brothers.
80 Creative Writing
The nature of man.
Property.
Must the right triumph?
A new economic plan.
What is art?
Tragedy and the tragic.
Comedy and the comic.
What one loses in going to college.
Education as an end in itself.
If I could educate a boy (or girl) as I wished.
Write paragraphs composed of antithetical sentences on the follow-
ing subjects:
Undergraduate enthusiasms.
The evils of examinations.
Dangers of business success.
Americanism.
The lecture method of instruction.
Choose any of the subjects given in this set of Exercises, crystallize
your opinion about it into a short thesis sentence, and then write a
theme on the subject. Use a straightforward, terse, pounding style
in which you express elemental truths simply.
2. Emotional Vigor.
a. Write two emotional paragraphs on each of the following topics.
In one paragraph, try to give the impression that emotion is beyond
intellectual control, and, in the other, that emotion is in harmony with
the intellect:
A description of the death of some friend or relative.
A description of a flood, a fire, a windstorm, or some other
natural disaster.
An account of some battle which figures in the history of your
state.
An argument against some political abuse now agitating your
section of the country.
A characterization of a favorite historical (or contemporary
or fictional) hero.
b. Employing series of images, portray emotionally each of the
following:
Trees after a rain.
The coming of winter.
The geological history of your home state.
The song of a street musician.
Vigor in Style 81
The grief of an animal over the death of her young.
The grief of a wife over the death of her husband.
The delight of a coir descent walking in the woods (or along
the seashore or over r meadow) for the first time after a long
and dangerous illnes. 1
The love of a tin) i girl for some man whom she regards as
a hero.
The hatred of a i etty employee for his foreman.
The fear of discovery on the part of a murderer.
CHAPTEE IV
Vigor in Style (Continued)
3. VIGOR OF WORDING. We have spoken of the way in which in-
volved and closely woven sentence structure, blunt and straight-
forward sentence structure, abrupt and exclamatory sentence struc-
ture, and patterned sentence structure make for intellectual and
emotional vigor. It remains now for us to examine the smaller ele-
ments of composition to discover how they, too, may contribute to-
ward a vigorous style.
a. Brevity. One of the first principles a writer ought to remember
is the principle of brevity. In general, it is a sound doctrine which
demands the greatest number of ideas in the shortest space. This
does not mean that writing should be sketchy, incomplete, or hasty.
Important ideas deserve to be elaborated, dwelt on, and discussed
fully. The doctrine means merely that, however many ideas enter
into a composition, the statement of each of them should consume
as little space as possible.
The disease of wordiness has two quite different forms. One
shows a general swelling involving the entire organism of the com-
position, and the other shows only small local abnormalities in the
individual members of the composition-body. The first is easily de-
tected and, in most patients, easily cured; the other is insidious and
hard to cure.
(1) The first kind has two symptoms: the bookishly artificial use
of unnecessarily long words, and the deliberate use of too many
words. Sometimes one of these symptoms predominates over the
other, and sometimes both are pronounced. Dr. Johnson's famous
revision of his remark about a certain comedy "which had not wit
enough to keep it sweet" is a good example cf the first symptom.
Dr. Johnson corrected himself: "A play which does not possess
82
Vigor in Style 83
enough vitality to preserve it from putrefaction/' The fault here is
not too many words, but too many syllables. At another time the
Doctor assured a "little thick, short-legged" printer's devil: "When
you consider with how little mental power and corporeal labour a
printer can get a guinea a week, it is a very desirable occupation for
you." Boswell has the same habit of profuse syllabification:
However confident of the rectitude of his own mind, Johnson may have
felt sincere uneasiness that his conduot should be erroneously imputed
to unworthy motives, by good men; and that the influence of his valuable
writings should on that account be in any degree obstructed or lessened.
This sort of wordiness is seldom seen nowadays except where its
purpose is humorous cheaply humorous, most often. O. Henry's
use of long words, however, for a humorous effect is extraordinarily
adroit:
Mrs. Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the
sedentary disposition, the Sunday afternoon wanderlust, the draught upon
the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for department
store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to the lady in the
third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two names over
her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which she remained glued to the
window sill, the vigilant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless
patronage of the acoustics of the dumbwaiter shaft all the attributes of
the Gotham flat-dweller. 1
Much more common is the other symptom, but much harder to
describe. It is the stiff-starched, now-l-take-my-pcn-in-hand style;
the padded style of the student who feels that he must be scholarly
and formal in his writing; the patronizingly careful style of textbook
writers; the stiffly personal style of prefaces; the painfully impersonal
style of learned articles; the gravely sententious style of editorials.
In a word, it is a style affected by writers too much aware of the
seriousness of their missions, and too eager to make other people
likewise aware. As Dr. Johnson said, it is a style which tries to ap-
pear dignified by walking on tiptoe.
At some time in life [a freshman theme beginsl we all stop for a mo-
1 From The Voice of the City, by O. Henry, copyright, 1904, by Doubleday,
Doran and Company, Inc. Reprinted by permission.
84 Creative Writing
ment and ask ourselves what this world of ours really is, what its true
meaning may be, and toward what unknown destiny it is tending. From
that moment, we become aware that we are philosophers in the deeper
sense of the word.
Another freshman puts it:
What is the meaning of life? When I am asked this all-important ques-
tion, I do not make some visible motion with my arms or body, but I
search the invisible recesses of my mind.
Another more oratorical youngster ends his theme:
Give these United States today a man of Washington's integrity, Lin-
coln's will, and Wilson's perseverance, and he will guide us out of the pit
into which we have fallen, and peace and prosperity will reign supreme.
Probably the best way to correct all these examples of wordiness
is to cross them out entirely. They say the obvious, and use too many
words to say it in.
A little different is the next, the beginning of the preface to a
freshman composition book by two great American scholars:
With the student in an attitude of confidence in the worth of his own
thinking and of eagerness to learn the methods by which his thought can
be conveyed to others in words, the problem of teaching the use of Eng-
lish reduces to the balancing of constructive practice over against the
corrective drill necessary to eradicate the bad habits due to foreign birth,
defective training, or indifference.
This formal sentence may be re-rendered:
When the student believes his own thinking is valuable, and is eager
to learn how to convey his thoughts to others in words, teaching him the
use of English becomes merely a problem of balancing constructive prac-
tice against drills necessary to correct bad habits due to foreign birth,
defective training, or indifference.
The original sentence contained 67 words, the altered one only 52
a saving of 22 per cent.
A group of three English instructors wrote this for the benefit of
freshmen:
It is often necessary for a writer, in the course of preparing a com-
position, to obtain information from books, periodicals, or other publica-
Vigor m Style 85
tions. When such sources are used by the writer, the fact must be made
clear to the reader, and this is done by a system of reference called
documentation.
A less formidably textbookish statement would be:
In preparing a composition, a writer must often obtain information
from books, periodicals, or other publications. When he does so, he should
tell the reader so by a system of reference called documentation.
The original passage contained 51 words, the revised 33 a saving
of 35 per cent.
A scholarly paper which I have at hand starts off:
The average Elizabethan saw in astrology a subject which for the most
part was incomprehensible to him. He believed in the efficacy of the stars
to foretell human events to those who could read them, but he did not
understand by what means these matters were discovered.
The passage might be rewritten like this:
To the average Elizabethan, astrology was mostly incomprehensible.
He believed the stars could foretell human events to the initiated, but he
did not understand how.
The original passage contained 47 words, the revised 25 a saving
of almost 50 per cent.
(2) These examples, together with the excerpt from an editorial
quoted in the previous chapter, are enough to show how the con-
scious desire for a stiff-starched tone results in wordiness. But an-
other kind of wordiness creeps with malign ingenuity into even the
most informal writing. It is a wordiness due to grammatical con-
struction rather than to downright bombast. For example, a writer
may use a long dependent clause or a long phrase where a short
phrase or a single word might express his meaning quite as well,
and be briefer.
"I watched the man as he swam across the river/' might be re-
written, "I watched the man swim across the river/' or, "I watched
the man swimming across the river."
"A quality which he lacks is politeness/' might be rendered, "He
lacks politeness."
"Cosmic rays constitute a phenomenon which no one has yet been
86 Creative Writing
able to understand," might be rendered, "No one has yet been able
to understand cosmic rays."
"He is a man whom no one should trust," might be rendered, "He
is an untrustworthy man," or, "He is untrustworthy."
"Lincoln was a man endowed by nature with extraordinary abili-
ties," might be rendered, "Lincoln was a man of extraordinary natu-
ral abilities," or, "Lincoln had extraordinary natural abilities."
"Men who have no principles should not be chosen to fill positions
in the legislative halls of this nation," might be reduced to, "Un-
principled men should not be elected to Congress."
This sort of wordiness is extremely common in the work of young
writers, for young writers have not learned to give each sentence
that last instant of observation and consideration without which a
concise style is impossible.
Even the practiced writer may sometimes neglect this last instant's
survey, and may as a result construct such a sentence as this, found
in an excellent textbook on writing:
But the break with convention being touched upon here is not an ex-
treme one.
The sentence would be much better if it read:
But the break with convention touched upon here is not extreme.
Further on in the same book is an almost identical lapse: "A style
which is distinguished by exactness in the meaning of words used is
evidently an economical one."
The word "one" is the source of many an offense against brevity.
In the following sentences, it might profitably be omitted:
That horse is the most beautiful one here.
He is a man whom you can trust and one whom you can believe.
The farm which he owns is a large one.
The term "hurricane" is used when the storm is one of marked intensity.
The question of states' rights is one which still troubles the country.
Vigor in Style 87
Another frequent offender is "there is" or "there are." Naturally
there are times ( as in this sentence ) when no other word or structure
could convey the same shade of meaning or perform the same func-
tion. In the following sentence, for example, any revision to omit
"there is" would give the sentence a different implication:
There is no doubt that Sylvester's concept of verse was much influ-
enced by that of Poe.
But in other sentences the form makes for wordiness:
There are many palaces which are as beautiful as this.
There are many good writers who have used slang.
There were two men killed in the wreck.
Five minutes ago there were no clouds in the sky.
There were several books which had to be read carefully.
There is one thing to be remembered.
"Up" misused is a famous offender against brevity. Though it is
indispensable in such expressions as "speak up," "wash up," "touch
up," and a few others, it is an unnecessary tag in sentences like
"Wind up the clock," "Drink your milk up," "He slipped up on the
ice," "Hurry up with your examination," "I met up with him today,"
and many others.
The passive voice sometimes results in wordiness. Many teachers
of composition have an almost unreasoning horror of this voice, not
only because it is wordy, but because it is psychologically weak. Yet
the passive voice is useful. It discriminates between an important
receiver and an unimportant agent, as, "My brother was shot by a
highwayman." It helps an author be impersonal in a work ( such as
this book) where openly personal opinions would sound too much
like personal prejudices. It draws the reader's attention from the
personal equation to the concrete fact, as when a scientist writes, "It
88 Creative Writing
was found that this serum halted the disease," instead of, "I found
that this serum halted the disease." It keeps statements indefinite
where definiteness is impossible, as, "Nagging wives may be blamed
for many domestic troubles," or "This type of bird has been noted
in nearly all parts of the world." It enables writers to say things
which prudence or ignorance would prevent their saying in the
active voice, as, "College football has been commercialized in this
state." But notwithstanding these excuses for the passive voice, it is
too often weak and wordy.
The theme of the play is artistically developed by the young author.
If this read,
The young author develops the theme of the play artistically.
the sentence would be 16 per cent shorter. Moreover, it would be
direct and pointed instead of circuitous. In most of the following
sentences, the active voice would be briefer, and in all of them it
would be stronger:
Passive: A great game was played by both sides.
Active: Both sides played a great game.
Passive: When the passive voice is shunned, a few words are usually
saved.
Active: Shunning the passive voice usually saves a few words.
Passive: As soon as the trench was abandoned by our troops, it was
taken, over by the enemy.
Active: As soon as our troops abandoned the trench, the enemy took
it over.
Passive: The automobile was driven into the shade of a tree which had
been chosen as the picnic site.
Active: We drove the automobile into the shade of a tree which we had
chosen as the picnic site.
In all but the last example from two to four words are saved. In the
last example, the active voice is obviously more effective than the
passive.
b. Apologies. The passive is indirect; and indirect writing of any
sort is weak. When a writer has something to say, he should say it
(unless he has excellent reasons for doing otherwise) as directly as
Vigor in Style 89
possible. He should avoid halfway statements, apologies, and pal-
liatives.
He should not say, "She seemed to dance like a woodland fairy/'
but, "She danced like a woodland fairy."
He should not say, "My head seemed to be bursting," but, "My
head was bursting."
He should not say, "He was, if I may use the term, a man of des-
tiny," but, "He was a man of destiny."
He should not say, "It looked as if the fountains of heaven had
opened," but, "The fountains of heaven had opened."
He should not say, "His life hung, so to speak, by a thread," but,
"His life hung by a thread."
c. Static Verbs. These expressions are weak because they hint at
an indecisive and somewhat timid nature in the writer. A few words,
however, are weak in themselves. One of them is the verb "to be"
in its various forms. A writer should not say, "Here is a field," but,
"Here lies or stretches or extends a field." He should not say,
"Here is a building," but, "Here stands or towers or squats or
huddles a building." He should not say, "Here is a path," but, "Here
runs or winds or wriggles a path." In other words, whenever a
writer can gracefully avoid the static "is" in favor of a more active
verb, he should do so.
d. Vague Words. Another offender is "very." The word has been
used so much to intensify other words that it has lost its own
strength. Nowadays, indeed, "He is a good man," is a stronger state-
ment than, "He is a very good man." "It was a delightful party," is
stronger than, "It was a very delightful party." And, "This is an in-
teresting book,* is stronger than, "This is a very interesting book."
"Great" is the next culprit on the list. It is not descriptive, not
exact, not concrete. "A great door" tells us nothing about the door; "a
great storm" does not make us visualize the storm; "a great event"
does not distinguish the event in any particular way; "a great bar-
gain" does not tell us whether the price is $4.98 or $4.90; "a great
undertaking" does not tell us whether it is a worth-while undertak-
ing, or a difficult undertaking, or an undertaking too big for the
90 Creative Writing
man who begins it; "a great number of people" does not tell us
whether the number was five hundred or five thousand.
"Wonderful," "nice," and "splendid" are three old offenders who
have been escaping the gallows erected by judges of writing for the
last fifty years. They have been used so much that they have lost
their original meanings. Observe: "He is a wonderful/nice/splendid
man." "It is wonderful/nice/splendid weather." "We had a wonder-
ful/nice/splendid time." "This is a wonderful/nice/splendid cake
you have cooked." "It is very wonderful/nice/splendid of you." It
makes no difference which of the three one uses, or in what con-
nection one uses them. Words that mean so many things mean noth-
ing.
e. Hackneyed and Trite Words. This brings us to the problems
of hackneyed phrases and jargon. Any good handbook of freshman
English will give a list of the more common hackneyed or trite terms
which a writer should avoid. Many of them are included in the fol-
lowing piece of doggerel:
When will we cease to write in books
Of murmuring, gurgling, twisting brooks,
Of winds that sigh and moan and beat,
Of the beautiful maiden's dainty feet,
Of crowds that surge and wagons that clatter,
Of waters that swirl and birds that chatter,
Of his firm jaw and his modest ties,
Of her sunlit hair and her heavenly eyes,
Of fleeting clouds that fleck the sky,
Of loves that wait but never die,
Of lips that tremble and quiver and curl,
Of bosoms that heave, and teeth like pearl,
Of engines that puff and throb and groan,
Of the villain's hiss, and his low, tense tone,
Of the dying sun's last flickering beam,
Of the pale moon's mellow, tender gleam?
When, my friend? When the universe is dead,
When the brooks are dry, or gone instead,
When the sun doesn't shine and the moon doesn't show.
There you have it, my friend and now you know.
Vigor in Style
This list contains others likely to escape detection:
91
along these lines
artistic temperament
brilliant career
captain of industry
close to nature
come in contact with
deadly earnest
depths of despair
discreet silence
dominant issue
dull thud
each and every
equal to the occasion
evolutionary process
familiar landmark
fiber of his being
force of circumstances
harked back
heart's content
in great profusion
iron constitution
last analysis
last but not least
myriad lights
of the earth earthy
Old South
paramount issue
passed away
picturesque scene
powers that be
profound silence
promising future
proud possessor
ruling passion
sea of faces
self-made man
simple life
skeleton in the closet
snow-capped mountains
soul of honor
struggle for existence
student body
suddenly
thunderous applause
true meaning of the word
untoward incident
vast concourse
venture a suggestion
walk of life
wrapped in mystery
wrought havoc
f. Jargon. Jargon is a form of speech a little different from any-
thing we have yet encountered. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, in his
book, The Art of Writing, has a chapter on jargon which is the pro-
totype of what all essays on the subject should be. If the reader has
not seen this shrewd and whimsical study of Quiller-Couch's, he
should look it up in the library and read it at once. What will be
said here is only a pale and vapid summary of what Quiller-Couch
has said supremely well.
The jargoneer dislikes to say things directly. In the eighteenth
century he would not call a fish a fish, but the "scaly breed" or the
"finny tribe/' He would not call sheep, sheep, but the "gentle tribe"
92 Creative Writing
or the "fleecy kine." He would not say, "The flowers are blooming,"
but, "Blushing Flora paints th' enamel'd ground." And on one fear-
ful occasion, he would not call snow, snow, but "wooly rain"! Nowa-
days the jargoneer resorts to circumlocutions and euphemisms. Near
is in the environs of; being born is first saw the light of day; dying is
passing away; no is in the negative; several years is over a period of
years; good weather is favorable climatic conditions; studied hard is
pursued his studies with great diligence; love is amorous advances;
grew up is reached mans estate and so forth, and so forth.
Thus, we could say of a young man: "He. first saw the light of day
in the environs of New York. After pursuing his studies with great
diligence over a period of years in the educational institutions of the
metropolis, he reached man's estate, and shortly thereafter began
making amorous advances to a member of the opposite sex. Though
she long turned a deaf ear to his proposals, or answered them in the
negative, she at last yielded, being under the spell of the favorable
climatic conditions of spring. Forthwith the happy pair entered into
the state of matrimony, and lived for a considerable period of years
in a state of connubial bliss, though at last our hero's better half
passed away."
Special groups of "vague, wooly, abstract nouns" are mentioned
in the following warnings by Quiller-Couch : "Whenever in your
reading you come across one of these words, case, instance, charac-
ter, nature, condition, persuasion, degree whenever in writing your
pen betrays you to one or another of them pull yourself up and
take thought. . . . Train your suspicions to bristle up whenever you
come upon 'as regards' 'with regard to,' 'in respect of 9 f 'in connec-
tion with' 'according as to whether.' " The following sentences illus-
trate these examples of jargon, together with a revision of the ob-
jectionable phrases:
In case it rains, we shall not go.
If it rains, we shall not go.
In the first instance, I must speak to you of, etc.
First, I must speak to you of, etc.
Vigor in Style 93
A book of this character (or nature) is useless.
A book like this is useless.
The condition of his health forbids his removal.
His bad health forbids his removal.
Our Mohammedan friend worshiped with others of like persuasion.
Our Mohammedan friend worshiped with other Mohammedans.
He assented with some degree of reluctance.
He assented reluctantly.
As regards his honesty, I am not at all doubtful.
I do not doubt his honesty.
In connection with (or with regard to, or in respect to) your last offer,
we cannot just now accept.
We cannot just now accept your last offer.
We shall employ him or not according as to whether he answers the
questions correctly.
We shall employ him if he answers the questions correctly.
One other sort of jargon which Quiller-Couch discusses is Elegant
Variation, that is, a squeamishness about the repetition of words
already used. For example, the school symbol of the local university
is an owl. When the sports editor of the local paper describes a foot-
ball game in which the team of this university participates, we hear
in successive sentences of the "home team," the "Owl gridsters," the
"feathered flock," the "feathered warriors," the "doughty Owlmen,"
and so on, with all the adjectives switched about to go with other
nouns and carry on the elegant variation ad infinitum. In many a
theme the death of some individual becomes "this unhappy event,"
"his unexpected demise," "his untimely end," "this shocking occur-
rence," and whatever else the ingenuity of the author may contrive
to circumvent ( as he would call it ) the Grim Reaper. Such elegant
variation looks self-conscious, as if a writer were too timid to use
the same word twice, or too eager to show the resources of his vo-
cabulary.
This section has consisted, up to now, of admonitions about what
94 Creative Writing
a writer should not do. From this point on, the section will consist
of more positive advice about what a writer should do to attain vigor
of wording.
g. Specific Words. The elementary rule, Prefer the specific to the
general word, is still sound. Instead of, "The birds were loud in the
trees/' write, "The jays were screaming among the pines." Instead
of, "Flowers were blooming everywhere," write, "Red gaillardias and
yellow cosmos glowed over the whole prairie." Instead of, "The
many kinds of books scattered about showed the diversity of his
interests," write, "Gibbon's History on the desk, a volume on elec-
tricity lying open on the lounge, and a shelfful of modern novels
showed the diversity of his interests."
h. The Exact Word. The other elementary rule, Choose the exact
word, is equally sound. Walter Pater regarded the language as an
immense hoard of treasure to which writers resort for words. In this
accumulated hoard is hidden one word for every purpose, and only
one word. All others besides the one are mere makeshifts with which
no self-respecting writer could be content. Thus, if one is pleased
with something, he may put it that he is delighted, charmed, glad-
dened, warmed, rejoiced, taken, captivated, fascinated, enchanted,
enraptured, transported, bewitched, ravished, satisfied, gratified,
tickled, regaled, refreshed, enlivened, attracted, allured, stimulated,
or interested by the thing. Which of the store to choose, the writer's
meaning must determine. To give another example, people move in
other ways besides by mere walking or running. They may travel,
journey, flit, migrate, perambulate, circumambulate, tour, peregri-
nate, wander, roam, range, prowl, rove, ramble, stroll, saunter, gad
about, patrol, march, step, tread, pace, plod, promenade, trudge,
tramp, stalk, stride, strut, stump, or toddle. Nor should an author
rest until he has chosen the one word in all these which suits the
meaning he has in mind. Note how different are the meanings and
the feelings conveyed by the following sentences:
He sauntered into the room.
He strutted into the room.
He stalked into the room.
He stumped into the room.
Vigor in Style 95
He journeyed about the country.
He flitted about the country.
He prowled about the country.
He tramped about the country.
A word always exists to match a thought, and nearly always to
match a feeling. It is the writer's business to seek out this matching
word as if it were a lost piece in a jigsaw puzzle. No other word
is so satisfactory; no other word makes quite so perfect a fit.
i. Short and Saxon Words. These two elementary rules about
the specific word and the exact word are beyond stricture. But one
or two other rules often quoted should be brought before the bar
of good judgment and retried. The first of these is, Prefer the
Saxon word to the Latin together with its companion, Prefer the
short word to the long. These precepts we should take with reserva-
tions. A simple, direct, and swift style, dealing with simple, clear,
and nimble ideas, quite obviously demands a vocabulary much
sharper and quicker than does a more elaborate style dealing with
involved, heterogeneous, and deliberate ideas. 2 Furthermore, long
Latin words give to writing a sonorous dignity never attainable by
the crisp Anglo-Saxon. How inferior is Tyndale's pure English trans-
lation, "I am the again-rising and the life," to the Latinized, "I am
the resurrection and the life!" And how poor would be the following
much-quoted and well-loved passage from St. Paul if all the italicized
Latin words were replaced by their English equivalents:
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or
distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
As it is written, For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are
accounted as sheep for the slaughter.
Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that
loved us.
For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor princi-
palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,
Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate
us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
2 In this very sentence, notice how ( without conscious design by the author )
the two contrasting ideas have shaped themselves into two contrasting modes of
diction. On the one hand, "simple," "direct," "swift," "clear," "nimble," "sharp,"
and "quick"; on the other hand, "elaborate," "involved," "heterogeneous," and
"deliberate."
96 Creative Writing
Representative passages show that the following use words of
one syllable to the extent indicated:
Somerset Maugham 75%
Katherine Mansfield 74%
John Galsworthy 70%
Willa Gather 69%
Sinclair Lewis 78%
Thomas B. Macaulay 70%
R. L. Stevenson 71 %
Charles Dickens 73%
Walter Pater 65%
Matthew Arnold 66%
The daily newspaper 61 %
This book 68%
Narrative writing usually has the largest number of monosylla-
bles; expositions of processes next; descriptions of sight-images next;
descriptions of sound-images next; and expositions of ideas least.
Modern writers tend to use more monosyllables than did the writers
of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
The figures just given show what a large percentage of modern
English writing consists of monosyllables. Indeed, when other things
are equal when cadence, sonority, and euphony are riot concerned;
when complex and abstract ideas are not involved; when a stately,
formal, dignified tone is not required; when no relief from a long
succession of short words is necessary when all these provisos are
made, the short and Saxon words are to be preferred to the long
and Latin words. Thus, in the old humorous examples, *T must go
home/' is better than, "I consider it necessary that I retire to my
domicile/' And, "I think he is a good man," is better than, "I am
convinced of the rectitude of his principles/'
Sometimes ( as in the paragraph from O. Henry already quoted )
a rare or sesquipedalian word will break the sameness of mono-
syllabic and commonplace diction. Perhaps Shakespeare had this
effect in mind when he wrote these three dull lines, and then finished
off with the amazing fourth line:
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Vigor in Style 97
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine.
The eighteenth-century critics made it a rule that no regular line
of poetry should consist of monosyllables alone; and Pope illustrated
the fault thus:
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Like many other eighteenth-century rules of writing, this went in
the right direction, but went too far. "The one rule," said Stevenson
in a famous passage, "is to be infinitely various/* Too many short
words, too many long words, too many Saxon words, too many Latin
words all are bad.
j. Division of Labor. One of the commonly recommended means
toward variety is what is called "division of labor." That is, the
adjective should not bear the larger part of the burden of meaning
and emotion in the sentence. Nouns and verbs are the backbone and
the sinew of the language: they should carry the chief weight; and
the adjective may often be transmuted, for the sake of strength as
well as variety, into an adverb. All this does not mean that we ought
to shun adjectives altogether, for adjectives have an indispensable
place in all good writing. But we ought to be wary of using adjectives
to the exclusion or the subordination of other parts of speech. Mark
Twain gave the excellent advice years ago, "When in doubt, omit
the adjective." And Emerson counseled, "Let the noun be self-suffi-
cient" (using an adjective, be it noted, in the sentence). These
precepts will raise many a dubious sentence into respectability, and
many a weak sentence into sound health. "He was an enormous
man" has not the vigor of "He was a monster of a man." "The flash-
ing guns were visible in the darkness" has not the vigor of "The
guns were flashing visibly in the darkness." "The breeze became
fresh" has not the vigor of "The breeze freshened." And "A cheerless
wind was blowing" has not the vigor of "A wind blew cheerlessly."
k. Coinages. Another means toward variety not accounted for
in Pater's conservative scheme is the coining of new words and
new compounds. The outright coining of absolutely new words
can never proceed on a grand scale except for the purposes of out-
98 Creative Writing
landish, gargantuan humor such as that in Rabelais. Even there,
however, it gives vigor to the writing. But in general, a sober writer
coins words for their onomatopoeic or their tonal effect. "Slurp!"
"Blip!" "Tonk!" "Pfitt!" these and their verb-forms are examples
of onomatopoeic coinage. On the other hand, "He went galumphing
down the street" is chiefly intended to give to the action a certain
feeling. And so with, "The wind wheemed eerily through the forest."
Or, "He woozled me out of five dollars." Such coinages have an
undeniable flavor of originality, an atmosphere of vigor; and though
they can never be used abundantly, they are often worth the trouble
it takes to make them.
Another sort of coinage which we may mention in passing is the
deliberate creation of new words to fit new ideas, new inventions,
or new discoveries. These words differ from the preceding in hav-
ing legitimate root-words, generally Latin or Greek. Often they
fill a want or an absolute need. The automobile, the airplane, and
the radio, for example, have brought into the language hundreds
of new words naming new objects such as carburetor, magneto,
heterodyne, and autogiro. Biology and psychology have brought
new words naming new ideas and processes such as patroclinous,
phenotype, introvert, libido, and schizophrenia. Physics and chem-
istry have an entire vocabulary incomprehensible to the uninitiated.
And a few trademarks or trade names have supplied new and now
reputable words for example, mercurochrome, vaseline, fabrikoid,
masonite, and cellophane. With all such words we can have no com-
plaint. But the impudence of high-pressure advertising and the
eagerness of a certain kind of scientist to invent long hard words
to replace old easy ones these we should resist. Realtor, groceteria,
healthatorium, dactijlogram, macrograph, and radiogoniometer, to
mention a few examples, are without excuse.
1. Compounds. A more important source of new words lies in
the combination of old words. Such combinations or compounds
are characteristic of Teutonic languages, and are in the best line of
English tradition. The introductory ten lines of Beowulf contain
these combinations: spear-Danes, yore-days, people-kings, mead-
settle, tore-away, little-owning, honor-worth, every-one, dwellers-
Vigor in Style 99
around, and whale-road. A single scene from Shakespeare's The
Tempest yields virgin-knot, sour-eyed, lass-lorn, pole-clipped, rocky-
hard, grass-plot, many-coloured, honey-drops, short-grassed, dove-
drawn, bed-right, waspish-headed, marriage-blessing, ever-harmless,
sickle-men, rye-straw, cloud-capped, red-hot, calf-like, filthy-man-
tled, foot-licker, and pinch-spotted. A page of John Galsworthy has
sub-golden, silver-coloured, silvery-necked, high-collared, red-
coated, sword-hilt, week-end-run-to, and dark-lashed. Nearly all
these last, however, are compounded of adjectives, which are not
to be compared in vigor with noun compounds such as those from
Beowulf and Shakespeare.
The chief value of both sorts of compounds is their brevity and
their freshness. Thus, in Galsworthy, "with dark lashes" would be
neither so short nor so original as "dark-lashed." The same would
be true of "one willing to lick another's feet" instead of "foot-licker"
as Shakespeare wrote it, or "spotted from the effect of pinches" in-
stead of "pinch-spotted." "The window glass covered with a mist
from his breath" is inferior to "the breath-misted window glass";
"a man who often sits on his lawn" is more commonplace than "a
confirmed lawn-sitter"; "with lips drawn in" is a less notable phrase
than "in-drawn lips"; and "people who live on a farm" is longer than
"farm-dwellers."
m. Original Meanings. To people who know a "little Latin and
less Greek," the use of words in their original etymological sense
may be a source of extraordinarily vigorous diction. In English,
words attach to themselves through the centuries an incrustation of
acquired meanings which writers conventionally accept; yet the
core of the word, the original meaning at the center of the con-
ventional meanings, still persists as a vague contour apparent in
spite of the incrustation. If a writer can unearth this original mean-
ing, he can present his readers with words elemental and powerful.
When Shakespeare refers to the ghost of Hamlet's father as "the
extravagant and erring spirit," he is getting back to the elementals
of words. He does not mean a "spendthrift and sinful spirit" but a
"strayed and wandering spirit." In a good dictionary, the original
meaning of a word is given either in the etymological note or in the
100 Creative Writing
definition of the word. By referring to these places, we may construct
sentences such as the following:
The castle was a towering fabric of stone.
Damp spirits overcame him.
I shall keep the Christmas holiday.
A vagrant wisteria vine climbed over the porch.
He came from a gentle family.
He proved himself a truly Laconic warrior.
n. New Uses. But the chief source of fresh and vigorous diction
lies in the new uses of words. For example, we are accustomed to
see the word plump used with definite material objects; but Kip-
ling applies it to an action in "plump obeisances." We are accus-
tomed to see the word staring used with eyes; but J. B. Priestley
says, "She talked in a kind of idle, staring voice." We are accustomed
to see the word blur used with images of sight; but de la Roche
writes, "The music became by degrees blurred."
The attainment of this freshness of diction is not easy. It comes
from the same almost philosophic spirit from which comes the
power to make figures of speech that is, the mind which sees
similarities in things which to the average mind are quite different.
When Conrad describes a swimmer immersed "in a greenish ca-
daverous glow," he recognizes the similarity between two things
so unlike as a swimmer and a corpse; when Poe speaks of "thy
hyacinth hair," he recognizes the similarity between the curls on a
woman's head and the curls of hyacinth petals; and when Wilbur
Daniel Steele writes of "little houses scrambling up the length" of
a street, he recognizes the similarity between houses and living
things. Not quite so obviously, but just as surely, a writer who
says, "She was one of those frankly sanctimonious persons," is em-
ploying a word usually associated with something very different
from sanctimoniousness. Jane Austen has a similar description: "He
possessed a countenance of strong, natural, sterling insignificance."
When O. Henry says, "The girl penetrated the restaurant to some
retreat in its rear," he uses a word associated with solids because
he sees the likeness between the crowded restaurant with its thickly
aromatic atmosphere, and a material substance. When Conrad says
Vigor in Style 101
that light "fell from above on the heads of the three men, and they
were fiercely distinct in the half-light," he sees the likeness between
distinct vision and strong passion. And when Ellen Glasgow writes
of "eyes fixed in a pathetic groping stare," she sees the likeness
between searching eyes and searching hands.
To perceive likenesses in things different, to apply to one idea or
image words most frequently used with another this may require
a certain quick, almost mystical intuition which every writer may
not possess. But almost every writer has at least a spark of intui-
tion; and by proper care, one may fan the spark into quite a warm
blaze. At any rate, one can try. He can avoid saying "green grass/'
and say instead "poisonous grass," or "pallid grass," or "delicious
grass," or "cheerful grass." He can avoid saying "blue sky," and
say instead "livid sky," or "purple sky," or "dead sky," or "living
sky," or "brazen sky," or "hovering sky," or "huddling sky," or "still
sky," or "weary sky," or "glad sky." And he can vivify such a com-
monplace statement as "He glanced toward her" by saying instead,
"His glance slid toward her or slipped toward her or rushed
toward her or wandered toward her or bounded toward her."
So far, everything which has been said about style in this book
has been advice which any intelligent person with some capacity
for taking pains might follow. But what is to be said in the next
two parts of this discussion of style is not advice which anybody or
everybody can follow. Indeed, much of it is not even advice. It is
merely an analysis of some of the elements which create the vague
abstractions "personality" and "beauty" in style. Some writers will
find the analysis useful for their own writing; others will not.
EXERCISES
3. Vigor of Wording.
a. Make the wording of the following sentences more vigorous. In
addition, change the structure wherever it is weak. Explain all changes
you make:
(1) We come to college with the expectation of being able
to increase our practical knowledge to such an extent that we
shall be able to make a living for ourselves.
102 Creative Writing
(2) We may taste of many things in college, and thus acquire
a wonderful fund of knowledge which, in our future life, will
help us to understand the world and to enjoy it.
(3) We make judgments in the same manner in which the
business man makes his.
(4) It is not the circumstance that we have a college educa-
tion, or willingness, or ability, or personality, or any other one
quality that assures success for us; but it seems to be a happy
combination of all these qualities.
(5) We must not permit the importance which attaches
itself to one phase of college life to overshadow the possibilities
which are encompassed within the other.
(6) The plays that college students have assigned to them
as required reading are read very hurriedly, and with the one
idea in mind that an examination is to be passed.
(7) My first day at college was one of wonderful surprises
and great disillusionments.
(8) The professor was a young man of seemingly athletic
build. His eyes were bright and his manner was alert. The
splendid character of this man was a great influence over all
with whom he came in contact.
(9) He at once instituted an inquiry through the advertising
columns of the daily paper in order that he might learn some-
thing of the whereabouts of his missing son.
(10) He was very glad to part with a large portion of his
savings in order that his son might be able to train himself in
the profession of law.
(11) The prisoner is charged with murder in connection with
the killing of Q. R. Bronson in a holdup which is known to have
occurred on November 10.
(12) There is a considerable portion of the population which
still harbors suspicion concerning the nature of the American
banking business.
(13) Although marriage ceremonies and funerals seem to be
entirely different things, they are similar in many respects.
(14) He thought that he could not remember having spent
such a wonderful evening.
(15) The walk was postponed, but only after the promise of
one for the next evening was given to him.
(16) The morning dawned clear and bright; in fact, it suf-
fices to say that it was a typical Palm Beach morning.
Vigor in Style 103
(17) The moonlight reflected on her hair made her resemble
a goddess.
(18) He was very much attracted to this beautiful young
lady who seemed to exert something of a spell over him, though
he felt that he was powerless to do anything about it.
(19) But alas! A rude awakening from a dream of splendor
lay before him.
(20) There might be a few people who would pretend to
be his friend as long as he had money.
(21) This nest is rather different from most I have seen, a?
it appears to be much more bulky than is usually the case.
(22) It would be audacious of me to appear to speak with
authority on the more technical aspects of the printer's profes-
sion.
(23) Mr. D. believes the model to prove it possible to build
a yacht to the limits of the length to which sheet aluminum of
the correct quality can be rolled, without any cross-seams what-
soever on the hull.
(24) Mrs. Van Kosh had an utter horror of physical punish-
ment in any capacity.
(25) She insisted that persuasion was the most efficient,
cultured, and humane manner in which a child should be reared.
(26) Standing there, he presented an appearance that re-
minded one of a fish.
(27) In rescuing the unfortunate canine and bearing it off
with me to my home, I succeeded in smothering all apprehen-
sions as to family reactions relative to what they would in-
variably term an additional nuisance.
(28) There is a new color called Briar Brown, which is a
dark, rich shade of brown, and which is very attractive, to say
the least.
(29) In Coleridge's case a boy of truly extraordinary quali-
ties was father to one of the most remarkable of men.
(30) Sedate, composed, and courteous, she presented a wide
contrast to her little brother.
(31) He was a large man who had hair which was the color
of a carrot; but though he was grotesque in appearance, he was,
I think, almost the kindest man I have ever known.
(32) Throughout my high school career, I selected subjects
that gave promise of preparing me for college; and in those
subjects I tried to stand out in scholastic rating that is, I
studied a great deal.
104 Creative Writing
(33) When he came out into the light, I could see that he
was very tall; but the dark eyes appeared to have a sinister light
in them, and seemed to be able to see right through me.
(34) Sophistication and poise (both of them qualities essen-
tial for beauty) are evident in her entire bearing.
(35) The physical aspects of this great educational institu-
tion are in keeping with its scholastic attainments.
b. Make the diction of the following sentences more specific:
(1) The child was pleased by the many Christmas presents.
(2) It was an untidy room.
(3) Bright colors were to be seen everywhere at the game.
(4) The entire village disliked seeing its minister wear
shabby clothes.
(5) His whole appearance was grotesque.
c. Find a more exact word for each of the italicized words in the
following sentences:
( 1 ) I heard a heavy body fall to the floor of the apartment
above us.
(2) The puppy came toward us.
(3) The sun went down behind the palm trees.
(4) I heard the child crying again.
(5) He is a wonderful man; it is a wonderful book; I had
a wonderful time.
d. Write a paragraph on each member of the following groups of
subjects, and then compare the number of Latin words in one para-
graph with the number in the other:
(1) The necessity for internationalism.
The necessity for nationalism.
(2) The death of an old country grandmother.
The death of a great warrior or statesman.
(3) The love of Paris for Helen.
The love of a high school boy for a girl.
(4) A criticism of some ultra-modern painting.
A criticism of a painting by one of the old masters.
e. Make adjectives bear less of the burden in the following de-
scriptive passages:
A small, cowering boy of ten stood before a huge man who
held a long leather whip in his hand. An ugly scowl was on the
man's swarthy face as he leaned toward the small boy with a
threatening attitude.
Vigor in Style 105
An old and tottering man was trying to pick his feeble way
along the crowded street. His shaking hand would now and
then touch a wall for support; and now and then he would pause
as if he were afraid to go farther through the dangerous traffic.
"Can I help you, mister?" a shrill voice cried as a ragged urchin
ran toward the old man. Taking the trembling hand in a close
grip, the boy led the old man across the street, and left him safe
on the other side. This kind act showed that, for all his ragged
clothes, the little boy was at heart gentlemanly.
f. Substitute compound words for phrases in the following sen-
tences:
(1) He entered the gate to the field.
(2) The chickens had littered the earth with the rubbish
they had scratched up.
(3) He moved off down the road leading to the mill.
(4) He wore a black mustache which was cropped short.
(5) He came into full view on the slope of the hill.
(6) Daffodils grew in boxes at the windows.
(7) The farm was about a mile from the edge of the wood.
(8) We passed two outlandish vessels with high sterns.
(9) The owner of the boat came toward us.
(10) He rode a horse marked with sweat.
g. Write sentences in which you use the following words in their
original meanings:
concur artful eager
capital trivial indifferent
apprehend character countenance
insinuate prevent quick
fond virtue conceit
infantry nominate accost
h. Try to find more notable words for the following ideas:
full face windy day
puffy face green trees
blue eyes thick foliage
bright eyes clear stream
rosy cheeks high mountain
full lips rolling country
weak chin shady path
strong jaw bright sunlight
receding forehead sweet song
bald head swaying vines
106 Creative Writing
i. In a good thesaurus find ten synonyms for each of the following
words. Last the synonyms, and make sentences that will contain at
least three of them:
light brown
dark red
transparent green
color yellow
colorless blue
white purple
black orange
gray variegated
loud hot
faint cold
discordant
musical high
low
soft
hard dry
wet
sweet
sour fragrant
fetid
fast
slow
CHAPTER
Beauty of Style
Beauty is that which gratifies the eye or the ear independently
of other considerations. But since writing (exclusive of good pen-
manship or good printing) consists of ugly black wriggly figures
spread across white pages, it cannot gratify the eye as a beautiful
image. Accordingly, writing which is beautiful must symbolize
sounds gratifying to the ear. In this sense, therefore, we shall discuss
beauty in style. It means beautiful sound, pleasing sound, in writing.
Moreover, it ought to involve, and it shall involve in our discussion,
fitness of sound to sense.
In the following pages we shall discuss beauty under three heads:
beauty of pure sounds, beauty of patterned sounds, and beauty of
rhythm.
1. PURE SOUNDS. In some way, and for some reason, a few sounds
have come to please, and a few to displease, most English-speaking
people, irrespective of meaning or context.
a. Beautiful Sounds and Ugly Sounds. Among the vowels, a as
in arm, o as in ode, oo as in moon, and the two u sounds in tuneful
are the most pleasing. Close behind come a as in ale, e as in be,
and i as in white and ill. Positively displeasing are the aw sound in
all, ou ( or ow ) as in out, u as in up, a as in fat, and perhaps e as in
well. Oi seems displeasing sounded alone or in certain combinations;
but words like voice and loyal are not ugly.
The consonants may probably be arranged something like this in
descending order:
Beautiful: Z, m, n, r, v, s, d.
Negative: t,f,w,y.
Ugly: k, b, p, h, g, /, z.
107
108 Creative Writing
This order is only approximate, it would differ with different
individuals. But in a list made out by a score of people, the first
half-a-dozen sounds here given would probably appear first in one
order or another on all lists. An Italian musician pointing out the
beauty of the English language gave as an example of perfect beauty
the words "cellar door"; Poe thought t; was the most beautiful letter,
and he said that the saddest words in the language were "no more."
In his famous poem he used with tremendous effect the word "never-
more." In all the phrases quoted, the beautiful fs, ms, ris, rs, and
one s, together with the long o's, occur again and again.
S and d, however, are problems. They seem to be beautiful when
they occur alone, but are ugly when prominently repeated in suc-
cessive words. Likewise all the negative letters and their partners
(mentioned below) become ugly if too much repeated. Indeed, a
sentence in which the number of consonants is disproportionately
large is rough, no matter what the consonants may be:
Midst thickest mists and stiffest frosts,
With strongest fists and stoutest boasts,
He thrusts his fists against the posts,
And still insists he sees the ghosts.
Moreover, some consonants sound so much alike that a reader
must be careful to pronounce them very distinctly when he finds
one of them at the end of a word, and another at the beginning of
the next word. Such pairs make unpleasant reading. They are b
and p; d arid t; f and v; g and k; m and n; s and z. To be added
to the list is any consonant repeated from the end of one word to
the beginning of the next word, as "deep places." Some ugly sen-
tences showing the liaison (as it is called) of pairs of consonants
follow:
The big king kicked Tim.
A plain man must drink good tea.
Hop up behind his sister.
Pop broke glass on market days.
Beauty of Style 109
The next few quotations illustrate the beautiful and the ugly
effects produced by certain letters:
Fat black bucks in a barrel-house room 1
This is an ugly-sounding line. Notice the flat a's and the flat w, the
b's, the k's, the h, the /, the ugly on in house. Room is the only
beautiful word in the line.
This next is from that now-neglected master of word-music,
Tennyson:
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Notice how the long o's, the i's, and the ;i'.9, /'.$, and rs echo and
reecho through the lines; and how every ugly sound (like h, k, g,
and p) is immediately modulated by a following beautiful sound.
The single exception is "how."
Shakespeare's early and poor play, the Comedy of Errors, has
lines such as these:
Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.
Hence, prating peasant, and fetch thy master home.
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.
It would make a man as mad as a buck to be so bought and sold.
Turning to prose, we find this in Kipling: "shrimp-pink prisoners
of war bathing." Not quite so bad is, "The shutter of the room next
mine was attacked, flung back." Carlyle writes, "Thus your Actual
Aristocracy have got discriminated into Two Classes," and, "The
Ant lays-up Accumulation of Capital, and has, for aught I know, a
Bank of Antland." Here is a sentence from Galsworthy, with the
1 In the original poem, the word is "wine-barrel" instead of "barrel-house";
the latter word is the first in the next line.
110 Creative Writing
purely unpleasant sounds capitalized, and the unpleasant repetitions
or liaisons italicized:
HiS KicKS And CrowS And sPlAsHingS HAd fhe Joy of a gnAt'S
dAnce or a JAcKdAw's GAmBols.
But it should be remembered that the sense or the feeling of a
passage may often demand ugly sounds. The sentence just quoted
from Galsworthy (in which the bathing of an infant is described)
would be absurd if it were dignified and beautiful; and the line
from Lindsay's Congo ("Fat black bucks," etc.) is purposely ugly
because the author tries to create an unpleasant reaction in the
reader. The following from Tennyson's Mortc d' Arthur is likewise
purposely harsh for its onomatopoeic effect:
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels.
b. Feeling and Letter-sounds. Not only are certain sounds beau-
tiful or ugly in themselves, but certain sounds convey certain feel-
ings.
O, especially long o, gives sonorousness, solemnity, power, and
often mournfulness to words.
7, especially long t, gives a feeling of quick brightness, delight,
and happiness.
A as in fate often has about it a feeling of lazy deliberation, or
stateliness, or undeviating straightness, or weight.
Long c usually implies feeling keen rather than powerful.
Long u and long oo make a tuneful, crooning sound that is sooth-
ing, smooth, and curative.
Short a, e, and u are dull words, heavy, flat, platitudinous, and
sometimes depressing. They occur in words like wet blanket, mud,
sniut, fat, nap, and death.
The Biblical sentence, "Arise, shine, for the light has come, and
the glory of the Lord is upon thee," is a perfect example of joyous
long is which grow into the more solemn emotion of the long
Beauty of Style 111
os, which in turn end with a hint of excited feeling in the long e.
"Give ye ear and hear my voice; hearken and hear my speech/'
This, with its long es, almost screams at its reader. The next verse,
however, at once mounts into true solemnity: "Doth the plowman
plow all day to sow? Doth he open and break the clods of his
ground?"
Some consonants have definite emotional connotations, or excite
definite feelings or ideas. The long-drawn in and n, for example,
bring about in the sound-progression a momentary suspension which
is lulling and soothing. Tennyson uses these letters, together with
long o, most skillfully in "The Lotos-Eaters":
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon they eame unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
R with long vowels creates a calm, clear music, as in this stanza
from "The Lady of Shalott":
Only reapers reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Heard a song that echoed cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
But with a profusion of other consonants, r becomes harsh and
rasping as in the lines from Morte d 'Arthur already quoted.
L is liquid, light, translucent; it is pale like twilight; it is soft
like the glow of a pearl. In his descriptions of the sea, Conrad in-
variably calls on this letter to assist him, as in this:
Creative Writing
I saw it suddenly flicker and stream out on the flagstaff. The Red En-
sign! In the pellucid, colorless atmosphere of that southern land, the
livid islets, the sea of pale, glassy blue under the pale, glassy sky of that
cold sunrise, it was, as far as the eye could reach, the only spot of ardent
color. 2
S is a swift and agile letter if it is not bound up with long vowels.
Thus, Tennyson's "So strode he back slow to the wounded king,"
is slow and deliberate because of the long os which impede the
flow of the ss. But Pope's lines,
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn or skims along the main,
show the s in its true nature. The old tongue-twister, "She sells
sea-shells by the seashore," is all the more difficult to say because
the s's invite indeed, almost compel hasty utterance. If the line
were slowed up by long o's, we should not be tempted to say it
fast, and should find it no more difficult than Tennyson's line quoted
above. Thus: "Sol soaks so-and-so's in soapsuds."
B, t, and p give an impression of abruptness of a chopped-of?
sound, an idea bitten through, a sentence pat and proper.
G, h t and / are ordinarily regarded as rough, savage letters with
none of the refinement of /, in, n, and r. A look into a thesaurus
shows all these words with gs and h's as synonyms of horrible:
ugly, homely, misshapen, shapeless, hard, hard-visaged, haggard,
grim, ghastly, ghostly, gristly, gruesome, ungainly, gross, hulking,
horrid, and hideous.
Poe's poem, "The Bells," is a deliberate exercise in letter-sounds
and letter-feelings which the reader may study with profit.
In the following experiment, notice how the sense and the feeling
change with the changing of dominant letters:
With o: A bullet moaned slowly across the hollow.
With t: A bullet trilled swiftly from cliff to cliff.
With e: A bullet screeched fiercely, deep in the ravine.
With a: A bullet wailed past the face of the palisade.
With n: A bullet sang along the canyon between pinnacles of stone.
2 From A Personal Record, by Joseph Conrad, copyright, 1912, by Double-
day, Doran and Company, Inc. Reprinted by permission.
Beauty of Style 113
With r: A bullet from far off rang its clarion through the gorge.
With /: A bullet leapt lightly across the valley.
With s: A bullet sped swiftly from side to side of the abyss.
With fo, /, p, and t: A bullet cleft the space between lip and b'p of
the gulf.
With g, h, and ;': A bullet hurtled savagely from jagged crag to
crag.
So far, we have dealt with pure sounds as units, irrespective of
their relation to the sentence as a whole. In the next section, we
shall examine them as they appear in the sentence itself.
2. PATTERNED SOUNDS. The essence of pattern is repeat. A single
beat of a tom-tom is not a pattern, but a series of similar beats is;
one soldier in uniform is not a pattern, but a whole squadron is;
one row of corn is not a pattern, but a field of rows is.
These primitive types of patterns, however, consisting as they do
of mere repeats, soon grow monotonous to the eye or ear. To be
permanently gratifying, therefore, a pattern must have variety,
change, relief from sameness; and yet all the while it must main-
tain its identity as a system of repeats. Good sentences have this
variety within sound-patterns. One sound repeats itself over and
over, and yet just before it becomes monotonous, this sound gives
way to another. Then, after a bit, the first sound may be taken up
again, carried on, blended with the second, made a part of the
special pattern formed by the second, and eventually wrought into
a harmony.
Within the sentence, only those sounds which occur in accented
syllables and in important words form a part of the sound-pattern.
But the very fact of repetition gives importance to sounds which
would be ignored if they were not repeated. Any sound, therefore,
repeated several times becomes a part of the sound-pattern almost
independently of its accentuation or sense-importance.
a. Vowel-Patterns. A sentence already quoted is a good example
of simple vowel-pattern:
Arise, shine, for thy light has come,
. .1 i i..i u. . .
and the glory of the Lord is upon thee.
. O . O O ..... 6
114 Creative Writing
Expressed symbolically, according to the rhythmical balance of
the sentence, the pattern looks like this:
i i i i u
o o o e
In this next, as in the preceding, only accented vowels are noted:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed,
. . .e i aw u
or the golden bowl be broken,
o o o. . . .
or the pitcher be broken at the fountain,
i o ow
or the wheel broken at the cistern.
e o i
The pattern of it may be expressed thus:
e i aw u
o o
1 o ow
e o i
Observe the beautiful weaving back and forth of the dominating o
( with the kindred open aw and ow ) and the less emphatic e's that
gradually reach a climax in wheel; and observe the minor i sound
reappearing in all the components but one.
One more example from the Bible:
Intreat me not to leave thee,
. . . .e. . . .e. .o e e.
or to return from following after thee:
U....U...O.Q a e..
for whither thou goest, I will go;
i ow. . .o. . . i. . .i. . .o. .
and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.
a .... ow . o i ... i ... o ....
Beauty of Style 116
This, with its open ow and o sounds, is approximately as follows:
e e o e e
u u o o a e
i ow o i i o
a ow o i i o
The entire passage is a pattern of three elements e, o, and
with u and a as discords. Notice, moreover, the additional pattern
in the last two elements of the passage.
Here is a sentence from a modern writer, Joseph Conrad:
He is the war-lord
. .e aw. .aw
who sends his battalions
. . u . . e a . a ....
to the assault of our shores,
u a . . aw .... ow ... o ...
There may be some questions as to whether the passage is divided
correctly; but the interplay of aw's and as is obvious. The last
element of the sentence forms a perfect conclusion by repeating the
two dominant elements, and then shifting subtly to the related
open sounds of ow and o.
One more example will reveal additional complexities of these
vowel-patterns :
Oh, moonlit night of Africa,
o u. .i. . .i a
and orchard by those wild sea-banks
aw i. . . .o. . . .i. . . .e. . .a. . .
where once Dido stood. 8
. . .a. . .u i.o. . .u. . . .
Exclusive of alliteration, which can become obvious and tiresome,
there is no better way to get music in prose than by the use of
vowel-patterns such as those analyzed. Their intricate interweaving,
or counterpoint, makes the beauty of language.
3 From Andrew Lang's Adventures among Bonks. Quoted by W. E. Williams
in Plain Prose, Longmans, Green and Company, 1929, p. 110.
116 Creative Writing
b. Consonant-patterns. It is true that consonants can be molded
into patterns quite as complex; but except for a few consonants
and a few simple patterns, consonant-patterns have little real effect
on the reader. He usually sees them as mere repetitions of a unit
without relation and without variety. Furthermore, except with three
or four consonants (m, n, /, and sometimes r), these repetitions
become displeasing before they have worked themselves into a
notable pattern. About the best a writer can do, therefore, after
he has made the simple consonant-patterns, is to be content with
repeating consonants only for the psychological effects already men-
tioned. He should leave most of the business of pattern-making to
the vowels.
Some consonants can be worked into pleasing arrangements of
repeats. In the stanzas from "The Lady of Shalott" and "The Lotos-
Eaters" we have seen how the repetition of r, m, and n gives real
pleasure. And in a passage from Conrad we have seen I used pleas-
ingly. Moreover, these repeats are not merely alliterative; they
weave at random in and out of the syllables. This next passage of
prose, from Kipling, illustrates the musical use of the same four
letters. It begins with / and r, passes on to m and n, and concludes
with r once more. ( The vowels make a pattern of o's and is. )
The night had c/osed in rain, and rowing c/ouds b/otted out the fights
of the vi//ages in the va//ey . . . The monkeys sung sorrowfuWy to each
other as they hunted dry roots in the fern-draped trees.
But (omitting these four) consonants can usually be felt as pat-
terned only when they are alliterative. Furthermore, if the allitera-
tion involves more than two or three syllables, it is nearly always
distinctly unpleasant to the reader.
The sentence lacks a proper proportion of parts.
The water washed the watchdog away.
Girls gain their growth less gradually than boys.
All these sentences sound bad.
The best sort of alliteration for prose is that which is an intricate
crisscross of sound that is felt rather than intellectually perceived.
Beauty of Style 117
Let us see it working out in verse and then in prose. Swinburne,
that master of patterned language, writes:
There go the loves fhat wither,
The old loves with wearier things;
And all dead years draw f hither,
And all disastrous things.
The pattern is
Th th 1 th w
Th 1 w w w
a d d th
a d th
In the following passage from Pater's Marim the Epicurean, note
how s and ra are the primary alliterative elements, and how allitera-
tions of Z, /, and h weave like three threads in and out of the funda-
mental pattern:
So, /ittle by fittle, they stole upon the /jeart of their sister. She, mean-
while, bids the lyre to sound for their dc/ight, and the playing is heard:
she bids the pipes to move, the choir to .sing, and the music- and the
singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the /istener with sweetest
modulation. Yet not even thereby was their malice put to sleep: once more
they seek to know what manner of husband she has, and w/icncc that
seed. And Psyche, simple overmuch, /orgetful of her first story, answers,
"My husband comes from a /ar country, trading for great sums, //e is
already of middle age, with whitening focks."
In the following highly rhetorical passage from Ruskin, the reader
should notice how the first half of the first sentence is dominated
by a constantly recurring w; how the second half is dominated by
couplets or triplets of alliteration (b, b, b; p, p; l y /, I)- and how
the two halves are woven together by the / and k sounds repeated
at intervals throughout the sentence. The next sentence follows the
same scheme, with variations. The first half is dominated by s;
the second half is dominated by groups of other alliterations ( g, g, g;
b, b, b, b; r, r, r, r; b, b); and the two halves are woven together
by the I sound repeated at intervals throughout the sentence:
And then you will hear the sudden rush of the awakened wind, and
you will see those watch-towers of vapor swept away from their /ounda-
118 Creative Writing
tions, and u;aving curtains of opaque rain let down to the valleys, swing-
ing from the burdened clouds in black tending fringes, or pacing in pale
columns a/ong the /ake-/evel, grazing its surface into /oam as they go.
And then, as the sun sinks, you shall see the storm drift for an instant
from off the hills, /caving their broad sides smoking and loaded yet with
snow-white, torn, steam-like rags of capricious vapor, now gone, now
gathered again; while the smouldering .?un seeming not far away, but
burning like a red-hot ball beside you, and as if you could reach it,
plunges through the rushing wind and rolling cloud with headlong fall, as
if it meant to rise no more, dyeing all the air about it with blood.
To summarize all this about patterned "sounds :
Prominently repeated vowel-sounds (interspersed occasionally
with variant vowel-sounds ) constitute the easiest, and often the most
effective kind of sound patterns.
L, m, n, or r prominently repeated make easy and effective sound-
patterns.
The other consonants seldom make noticeable or pleasing sound-
patterns unless they occur in alliterations. These alliterations them-
selves are not pleasing unless they occur in the intricate crisscross
formations described above.
c. Rhyme. One other subject remains to be discussed, though
briefly. It is rhyme. We may say at once without any hesitation
that rhyme has no regular place in prose. It usually looks like an
accidental error made by an unskilled writer; and sometimes it
looks like cheap sensationalism. Yet once in a while rhyme is ef-
fective. It may be onomatopoeic, as in Bierce's "a grumble of drums,"
and in such phrases as "a growling, howling pack of dogs," "a
sputtering, stuttering, frightened little boy," "rushing through the
bushes," "chattering about matters of no consequence," "lapping at
the platter" (approximate rhyme), "wailing in the jail-house," and
so on. Or it may sometimes, in this day of advertising and political
slogans, make a catchy phrase which will draw attention and per-
haps be memorable: "gangsters shooting and looting in the cities,"
"lovers sighing and crying in the parks," "people wailing and railing
against fate," "politicians snug in their offices and smug in their
conceit," "portraits of office-seekers staring and glaring from every
billboard," "the smart, tart bright young people," and so on.
Beau ty of Style 119
Up to this point, we have discussed only letter-sounds and word-
sounds as units or repeated units. We have not discussed the larger
groupings of words, the blocks made up of many different syllables
forming complex bursts of sound and related harmoniously to other
such groups. Our next section will deal with such sound-clusters.
3. RHYTHM. The problem of prose rhythm has been the subject
of some studies in physics, many studies in psychology, and count-
less studies in rhetoric. But probably no writer has ever been able
to satisfy anybody but himself with his analysis of prose rhythm.
Accordingly, it will be extraordinary if the following paragraphs
seem to the reader at all correct or helpful. The chief virtue that
the author would claim for them is that they add another point of
view, another method of analysis, to those already known. Through
synthesizing the various points of view, through picking up a hint
here and following a suggestion there, somebody may sometime
come to a real understanding of prose rhythm. Till that time, all
suggestions, hints, and points of view of whatever kind will be
valuable.
Rhythm in prose is not rhyme; it is not meter (which is a regu-
lar succession of alternating accented and unaccented syllables); it
is not mere parallel structure (like / came, I saw, I comfuered)-, it
is not groups of sounds having the same number of syllables; it is
not patterns of vowel-sounds and consonant-sounds. Rhythm is like
ocean waves breaking on the shore. No two waves are alike; the
sounds made by no two waves are alike; and the intervals between
no two waves are the same. Yet a rhythm exists in the beating of
the surf; and the rhythm changes with changes in the tide and
weather.
a. Rhythm as a Sound Wave. The essence of rhythm, like that
of pattern, is repeat, although the repeated units need not be iden-
tical. Moreover, the repeat consists of two elements instead of one.
The wave comes in, and it goes out; comes in, goes out; comes in,
goes out. Sounds rise and fall; rise and fall; rise and fall. A sen-
tence with rhythm rises to a crest of sound, pauses, and then falls,
only to be followed by another such rise and fall, rise and fall.
Creative Writing
the sea;
run into yet the sea
All the rivers is not full.
come,
the rivers thither
from whence they return
Unto the place again.
of labor;
are full man cannot
All things " utter it.
with seeing,
is not satisfied nor the ear
The eye filled with hearing.
been,
which hath it is that
The thing which shall be;
done,
which is it is that which
And that shall be done.
Notice in the passage just quoted that the rise to the crest and
the fall away from it are of about the same length; and that each
of the different crests, from beginning of rise to end of fall, is
about the same length as each of the others. Contrast the passage
with a piece of non-rhythmic prose such as the following. Writing
such as this conveys information clearly, but it is not beautiful.
today,
throughout India due to
were reported monsoon storms,
and heavy property damage
Hundreds of deaths
were homeless,
of families
Thousands
over a cliff,
a train was thrown
In southern India
Beauty of Style 1%1
was buried
of fifteen when a house
a wedding party collapsed.
In the United Provinces
reported
Most deaths were caused
by similar
accidents.
We need not follow punctuation (always variable and often
arbitrary) in analyzing passages into sound waves. Sometimes sev-
eral sound waves may occur in a single sentence, as in the Biblical
passage already quoted. On the other hand, one sound wave may
involve more than one sentence:
We were in an ecstasy. // We were possessed.
The sun was glorious in the sky. // The sky was of a blue unspeakable.
A great deal of steam! // The pudding was out of the copper. A smell
like a washing day! // That was the cloth.
b. Rhythm as Balanced Sound. So far, we have been speaking
of the larger rhythmic unit as a wave. Suppose, now, that we aban-
don that figure, and speak of it as a balance of sound. As in poetry
there are the strophe and antistrophe, the stanza and the refrain,
the word and its rhyme, so in prose there are sound-units which
cry aloud for other sound-units to complete them. In a word, many
a sentence-element demands another balancing sentence-element
before the sentence as a whole can be satisfying.
Various forces within one sentence-element may impose the neces-
sity of a corresponding sentence-element for the sake of comple-
tion.
Grammatical structure is one of the forces:
Though I wanted to go, ...
If he speaks to me, . . .
When he was writing this book, . . .
Fio. i
A
AA
A
AA
FIG. a
AA
FIG. 3
FIG. 4
A
A
FIG. 5
Beauty of Style 128
All these sentence-elements demand by their structure an answering
element.
Furthermore, a certain rhythm in preceding sentences may point
to a like rhythm in subsequent sentences. Thus:
He tried five or six professions in turn without success. He applied for
ordination; but as he applied in scarlet clothes, he was speedily turned
out of the episcopal palace. He then became tutor in an opulent family,
but soon quitted his situation in consequence of a dispute about play.
Then he determined to emigrate to America. . . .
The last sentence cannot possibly remain thus without a completing
clause. The rest of the passage has imposed a certain rhythm on the
entire paragraph which the last sentence cannot ignore.
c. Types of Balance. But to get back to our fundamental point.
Rhythm involves a balancing of sound-groups. Now, balance does
not mean symmetry. Balance, indeed, does not necessarily require
that both elements have the same general structure. The sketches
(Figs. 1 and 2) show a balance between identical parts. But such
a balance is primitive and crude. The next sketch ( Fig. 3 ) shows a
balance made up of one heavy mass and three light masses. This
balance is more complex and more interesting than the others. The
final sketches (Figs. 4 and 5) show what any artist knows that
well-isolated small objects balance a large object or a group of
objects. This is the most interesting of all balance-combinations.
These are the fundamental types of balance. All other types are
but variations of these. In sentences, sound-elements of different
lengths take the place of the figures in the drawings. Otherwise
the principles of balance are the same in both pictorial and literary
art. It should be clearly understood, however, that since spatial iso-
lation is not usually possible in writing, it is replaced by weight of
meaning. Thus a short sound-element must have a powerful sig-
nificance before it can balance a long one, or before it can balance
several sound-elements.
Examples of the various types of balance follow, along with a
graphical analysis of each:
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( 1 ) Two sound-elements of the same length balance each other.
Stolen waters are sweet, // but bread eaten in secret is pleasant.
Hatred stirreth up strifes: // but love covereth all sins.
He is my brother,// but I do not love him.
(2) Several sound-elements may balance several other sound-
elements of the same length:
He that hath pity on the poor / lendeth unto the Lord: //and that
which he hath given / will He pay him back again.
Then said the princes / and all the people / unto the priests / and
unto the prophets: //This man is not worthy to die: /for he hath
spoken to us / in the name of the Lord / our God.
Such as it [Milton's character] was when, / on the eve of great events, /
he returned from his travels, / in the prime of health and manly beauty, /
loaded with literary distinctions, / and glowing with patriotic hopes //
such it continued to be when, / after having experienced every ca-
lamity / which is incident to our nature, / old, poor, sightless, and dis-
graced, / he returned to his hovel / to die.
(3) One long sound-element will balance several short sound-
elements. ( The long element may come last, as shown, or first. )
Wrath is cruel, / and anger is outrageous; // but who is able to stand
before envy?
What shall we say then to these things? // If God is for us, / who is
against us?
Neither blindness, / nor gout, / nor age, / nor penury, / nor domestic
afflictions, / nor political disappointments, / nor abuse, / nor proscrip-
tion, / nor neglect, // had power to disturb his sedate and majestic pa-
tience.
(4) Occasionally one short sound-element, weighty in its mean-
ing, will balance a longer element:
Beauty of Style
He labored long and faithfully, // but failed.
The first man is of the earth, // earthy.
A philosopher might admire so noble a conception; // but not the
crowd.
(5) A short sound-element may balance several other sound-ele-
ments of any length provided the short one expresses a more
weighty idea than the others, and (most often) comes at the im-
portant end-position of the sentence:
I tell you further, / and this fact you may receive trustfully, / that his
sensibility to human affliction and distress / was no less keen / than even
his sense for natural beauty // heartsight deep as eyesight.
We shall attempt to speak of them, / as we have spoken of their an-
tagonists, // with perfect candor.
Be not deceived: // evil communications / corrupt good manners.
Till I come, // give attendance to reading, / to exhortation, / to doc-
trine.
All these illustrations are sufficient to show the general nature
of balance in prose. These general principles, however, are subject
to infinite variations. Balanced elements may fall within larger bal-
anced elements; and a whole paragraph may consist of a complex
interweaving of balance within balance. The following paragraph
from Huxley, for example, is one large rhythmic unit:
If these ideas be destined, / as I believe they are, // to be more and
more firmly established / as the world grows older;
if that spirit be fated, / as I believe it is, // to extend itself into all de-
partments of human thought / and to become coextensive with the range
of knowledge;
if, as our race approaches its maturity, / it discovers, / as I believe it
will, // that there is but one kind of knowledge / and but one method of
acquiring it;
then we, / who are still children, / may justly feel it our highest duty //
to recognize the advisableness / of improving natural knowledge,
and so to aid ourselves and our successors // in our course toward the
noble goal / which lies before mankind.
Creative Writing
Graphically analyzed, the passage would look like this:
// ~
//
The distinctiveness of a writer's style, the prevailing temper, form,
and sound which make him what he is, issues, for the most part,
from the rhythms which he adopts. It may be a simple rhythm of
parallel and antithetical structures composed of two, four, or six
sound elements, as in entire books of the King James Bible. Or it
may be the complex symphonies of Ruskin, Newman, and Pater.
d. Harmony of Rhythm and Idea or Feeling. But whatever the
rhythm they use, good writers fit it to the sense of their work.
Simple and plain ideas demand simple and obvious rhythms; in-
volved and difficult ideas demand involved and intricate rhythms.
Moreover, letter-sounds must harmonize with the rhythm and with
the idea. Certain subjects require certain letter-sounds for their
proper transference to the reader; and both subjects and letter-
sounds require certain tempos of rhythm. A funeral oration, for
example, would not have sprightly i-sounds nor would it have a
quick and tripping rhythm; instead, it would be filled with long
o-sounds, and would fall into a slow, stately tempo full of long pe-
riods, long sound-elements, and large groupings of well-balanced
parts. One would not say in the oration, "He died of angina"; but,
"Having long suffered an acute affection of the heart, he at last
succumbed to his ailment/' ( Of course, this second version is wordy;
but its rhythm is right it means right. That a child may under-
stand.) Of a boxing-match, on the other hand, no one would seri-
ously write, "During an encounter notable for its rapidity as well
as for its vigor, the present holder of the championship title sue-
Beauty of Style 187
ceeded in decisively conquering the challenger ; but one would
write, "In a hard, fast match the champion knocked out the chal-
lenger."
The whole purpose of rhythm, from the beat of the Zulu's tom-
tom to the measures of Shakespeare's blank verse, is to create some
sort of feeling in the listener. Feeling expresses itself in pattern
(for rhythm is but a pattern); and pattern, in turn, rouses feeling.
The whole business of a writer, therefore, if he wishes to make
his reader feel, is to formulate a rhythm which will be consistent
with the ideas conveyed by words and the feeling stimulated by
word-sounds.
EXERCISES
1. Pure Sounds.
a. Write two short descriptions on each subject suggested below.
Try to fill the first description with pleasant, and the second with un-
pleasant, sounds.
The traffic parsing your home at a certain hour.
A touchdown made by your school, and one made by the
opposing school.
A conference with a professor.
Food on the table ready to be eaten.
A crowd at a bathing beach.
An automobile ride through a hilly country.
A modernistic picture you have seen.
A dog sleeping in the sun.
Children playing in the street.
A large person dancing.
b. Experiment with the different emotional effects you can obtain by
changing the letter-elements of the sentences below. Alter the mean-
ings slightly whenever you wish.
The old lady was sitting up in bed.
The cat was crying to be admitted.
A bird was singing beautifully from a nearby bush.
He is always complaining about his troubles.
You can always find him reading a book in the library.
Creative Writing
2. Patterned Sounds.
a. By describing different kinds of winds at different seasons of the
year, try to make the following kinds of vowel-patterns:
With long a.
With long e.
With i.
With o.
With oo as in moon.
Do the same with descriptions of different cloud effects.
Do the same with the different expressions a child's face as-
sumes as the child passes through different emotional states.
Do the same with different incidents in a football game.
b. Using whichever of the consonants I, m, n, or r seems most
suitable, write short, patterned descriptions of the following:
An opal.
An emerald.
A clear winter night.
A spring morning.
Dawn.
A cat stalking a bird.
A woman singing her baby to sleep.
Morning services in a country church.
c. Using a subject suggested in any of the Exercises of this book,
try to construct a few paragraphs having pleasing alliterative patterns
such as that in the passage by Ruskin quoted in the text above.
3. Rhythm.
a. Read aloud long passages from the King James Bible, Macaulay,
Walt Whitman, Carl Sandburg, T. S. Eliot, William Faulkner, Thomas
Wolfe. Try to find the rhythm in each group of sentences you read,
and try to express this rhythm with your voice until you get the
"feel" of rhythm.
b. With the purpose of getting appropriate rhythmic effects, write
A somewhat poetic description of the movement of the planets
and other heavenly bodies through space.
A description of the movement of traffic as seen from a tall
building.
A character sketch of a dignified old scholar.
A character sketch of an energetic and mentally powerful
figure.
An account of a train trip taken at night.
A short essay on Lincoln's place in history.
Beauty of Style 189
A short essay on Augustus Caesar's place in history.
A short emotional argument against child labor.
A short emotional argument in favor of universal military
training.
GENERAL EXERCISES ON STYLE
Improve the following sentences or passages, and explain your changes:
1. That man is spiritless who mildly sinks into senility merely because
he believes he is irrevocably growing old when the years slip by, for he
should know that youth is merely a mental state.
2. His hair was curly, and two small locks stood above his forehead
like the horns of a faun. He was seated at the soda fountain waiting for
his order, and he ran his fingers through his hair.
3. In desiring to go to college I had an ideal to attain, and in order that
I might not fail before I reached the goal, I prepared myself.
4. The same punishment which in one age and country is effective
may, in another age or country, be wholly without effect.
5. We received an unusually long "town-permission" in order to see
O'Neill's Strange Interlude because it lasted from two-thirty in the after-
noon until six; then a forty-five-minute intermission was given for dinner,
and the play was over at ten.
6. However, his coma was soon broken into by the grinding of the steel
wheels of the streetcar.
7. Thorsen was happy: he was going to die, and he had found a
strange beauty in death.
8. The crowd was quiet, disdaining even the small whisperings and
rustlings often attendant where people gather together in groups.
9. In the light of the torches he was strangely impressive. Wisps of
light danced about his white hair with a curious effect.
10. He was praying, his voice mingling with the sounds of river and
wind, and then winging upward to Him by whom words were heard be-
fore they were spoken.
11. In the shadows at the old man's feet I perceived a cripple, and
I realized that the prayers were for him, and there came to me a startling
thought.
12. Individual prayers sprang up among the crowd, and often these
rumbling undertones were broken by loud shouts of "Amen!"
13. The sufferer trembled as he listened to the whispering of the figure
in white, and then he did something that he had never done before he
rose from where he lay, and walked.
14. Already I was the possessor of one dog of sorts.
ISO Creative Writing
15. That evening the two hunters met in the cabin, and a discussion
of the day's luck followed.
16. Both in England and in the United States constant efforts are
being made by many people to reduce the number of capital offenses.
17. The power of the state over the life of law-breakers should be
exercised with great discretion. The offender's age, the country, and the
state of society should be taken into consideration, and punishment should
be delivered accordingly.
18. It may be added that the Scriptures clearly recognize and justify
the infliction of capital punishment in certain cases.
19. His mother was conscientious, thoughtful, and did her best to
quell her unruly offspring.
20. Neither of these opportunities is taken advantage of in high school.
21. All types of psychological devices had been lavished on Wee Willie
without the slightest trace of improvement in him.
22. Afterward, his habit of fibbing became annoying, even exasperat-
ing, as he neared his fifth birthday.
23. Choking and sputtering, he overturned Marjorie's salad, broke his
tea glass, and almost blinded Mr. Rover with his spluttering, enjoying
himself immensely.
24. Dave's thoughts were evidently far from his situation, and a pe-
culiar expression stole over his features.
25. As far back as I can remember, I have always had an intense dis-
like for them.
26. I had just received my report card, but I was very disappointed
to find that I had made no better than a D in my English. At first I
thought that there must be some mistake; so I averaged my grades and
found that the grade was correct.
27. In personally diagnosing myself, I believe that of my traits and
characteristics, both good and bad, the outstanding one is selfconscious-
ness.
28. Science has greatly increased our power of affecting the lives of
distant people, without increasing our sympathy for them.
29. The qualities which produce a man of great eminence in some one
field of endeavor are such as might often be undesirable if they were
universally distributed.
30. The creed of efficiency for its own sake has become somewhat
discredited in Europe since the War, which would never have taken
place if the western nations had been slightly more indolent.
31. He fed red corn to the hogs bred on the farm, and stored the
white corn in his barn.
32. The summer evening was closed, and Janet, just when her longer
stay might have occasioned suspicion and inquiry in that jealous house-
Beauty of Style 131
hold, returned to Cumnor Place, and hastened to the apartment in which
she had left her lady.
33. But it soon appeared that fate intended to turn the incident which
he had so gloried in into the cause of his utter ruin.
34. Somewhat to his surprise, the countess said nothing further on the
subject, which left Wayland under the disagreeable uncertainty whether
or no she had formed any plan for her own future proceedings, as he
knew her situation demanded circumspection, although he was but im-
perfectly acquainted with all its peculiarities.
35. The throng and confusion was of a gay and cheerful character,
however.
36. Whenever the senses are impinged on by external objects, whether
by the rays of light reflected from them, or by effluxes of their finer parti-
cles, there results a correspondent motion of the innermost and subtlest
organs. This motion constitutes a representation, and there remains an
impression of the same, or a certain disposition to repeat the same mo-
tion.
37. In the application of these principles to purposes of practical criti-
cism as employed in the appraisal of works more or less imperfect, I have
endeavored to discover what the qualities in a poem are, which may be
deemed promises and specific symptoms of poetic power, as distinguished
from general talent determined to poetic composition by accidental mo-
tives, by an act of the will, rather than by the inspiration of a genial and
productive nature.
38. On the night of his arrival in London, Alexander went immedi-
ately to the hotel on the Embankment at which he always stopped, and
in the lobby he was accosted by an old acquaintance, Maurice Mainhall,
who fell upon him with effusive cordiality, and indicated a willingness to
dine with him.
39. Henri was very poor, his clothes were torn and dirty and his shoes
full of holes, but Sophie felt proud to be with him, although usually she
would have been much put out by such things; for several years she had
not followed the fashions, but she had always been scrupulously clean
in herself and her linen.
40. Miss B., who suffered much from gastric catarrh, had saved a
little money out of her dress allowance, and driven from the house by
her mother's ill-treatment, went to study in Cracow.
41. She finds her way here by the same creative process by which
our feet find the familiar way home on a dark night by accounting for
themselves for roots and rocks which we have never noticed by day.
42. We think that it is possible that when these novels written by
Miss Gather have little left in them but historical interest, there will still
be readers who will find in the three brief novels we have already men-
13% Creative Writing
tioned and in one long one some flashes of truth about men and women
that is universal.
43. When the show was over, they strolled over to the drug-store to
procure a Coca-cola.
44. He checked himself abruptly, throwing up his hands in what
seemed to be a convulsive gesture.
45. Smith, who had by this time made his sales-connection, swallowed
the pride which contrasted so strangely yet not, after all, unusually
with his lack of chin, and went to see his father and his older sister, who
were the last of his close relatives.
46. There she stayed, not happy, and yet not unhappy, making some
friends, until she was eighteen, and had graduated with honors, making
up for lost time with a vengeance which astonished her teachers, filling in
the gaps with a fortitude and determination which won her admiration,
and taking a tremendous interest in chemistry.
47. Inflation is among the many subjects mentioned about which I
disclaim any pretension to real comprehension.
48. Perhaps the greatest danger which is involved in the growing as-
sumption of power by the federal government is the possibility that when
rugged individuality has been eliminated as a vital factor in our life the
indomitable fighting spirit that made America what she is today may also
have been crushed to earth, so that instead of the old do-or-die initiative
we may continue to pass the buck in placid resignation.
49. Poor thing! It seemed to be an effort for her to move; her pink,
checked gingham dress seemed to make her appear fatter than she really
was, and her sunbonnet made her head look too large for her.
50. The statement just made is in accordance with the known facts.
Something must be done about the industrial situation which confronts us
today. The fate of the nations hangs in the balance; we cannot afford to
delay action any further. Everything depends on the willingness of the
citizens of this great nation to pull together in one concerted effort to set
the wheels of prosperity spinning once more.
CHAPTER VI
Personality in Style
This part of the discussion on style will be short because the subject
is vague, and because good advice about how to acquire personality
in style is about as useless as good advice about how to acquire it
in real life. The only thing really worth stating is that all writing
pretending to literary merit should have personality. But what is
personality? The dictionary says that it is "that which constitutes
distinction of person." This helps a little, for it implies that per-
sonality in style is individuality; it is what distinguishes one author's
work from another's, and gives to each work of one author a certain
unity which brands it as distinct.
What constitutes this distinction, however, is another problem.
When we look about at our friends and acquaintances, we find our-
selves classifying them as straightforward, earnest, sincere, idealistic,
emotional, nervous, changeable, melancholy, sophisticated, excita-
ble, stupid, clever, brilliant, and so on. We classify them accord-
ing to their morals, their intelligence, and their emotions. But the
first of these three standards is obviously useless in our investigation
of personality in style; for though a writer or his thoughts may be
virtuous or wicked, his style cannot be. We have left, therefore,
the two categories of intelligence and emotion.
1. INTELLECTUAL PERSONALITY. Concerning the first of these,
something has already been said in the section on rationality in style;
accordingly, little remains to be mentioned here. One of the most
important items contributing to intelligence of personality in style
is the presence of an objective in every piece of writing. That is to
say, every piece of writing should have a central thought, a funda-
mental idea, a unified theme around which all the other thoughts
in the writing are grouped, and toward which they all point. Writing
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134 Creative Writing
which has no such central objective is certain to convey the im-
pression of a maundering, flaccid intellect which allows itself to talk
on and on without point or purpose. Furthermore, this objective
must be made clear to the reader by means of repetitions, summaries,
references, and proportional lengths of discussion; for if the ob-
jective is not obvious to the reader, having an objective is useless.
Next, every non-fictional composition of any length should be
divided into a few major parts. Readers cannot and will not fol-
low long, unbroken discussions. But these, parts should not be di-
vided and redivided into a vast number of interrelated subdivisions
which confuse the reader and make him lose the main objective or
the main divisions of the composition. Such dismemberment of
ideas is a German habit foreign to the best English tradition. Super-
fine distinctions and complicated analyses indicate a careful but not
a brilliant personality.
As a kind of transition between intelligent personality and
emotional personality in style, the value of impartiality may be
mentioned. Unpracticed writers are likely to think that the most tell-
ing criticism and the most powerful satire consist of slashing ad-
jectives, forceful epithets, and scathing denunciations hurled with
passionate vigor against the thing attacked. But practiced writers
know that no criticism and no satire is effective unless it sounds
coolly impartial. Accordingly, practiced writers are always careful
to mention a few good traits of their victims. The practiced writer
says, "No one ever doubts that Mr. Hoover was as honest as the day
is long, sincere, hard-working, and business-like. BUT . . ." Or,
"No one ever doubts that Mr. Roosevelt was vigorous, progressive,
courageous, and earnest. BUT . . ." And the concession that each
man has many real virtues only makes the criticism that follows
seem the more calmly judicious, and therefore the more tellingly
hurtful. Even if the writer believes that the object of attack has no
virtues at all, he should not say so, but should rack his brain to
discover some plausible excellence with which to drape the victim.
Furthermore, two or three words like "unutterably stupid/' "idiotic
bungler/' "nincompoop/' "blockhead," "lunatic," and so on, will undo
the effect of entire pages of seemingly impartial writing. They are
Personality in Style 135
the cloven hoof showing an essentially passionate rather than in-
tellectual personality.
2. EMOTIONAL PERSONALITY. This brings us to emotion in the per-
sonality of style. Emotion, however, is a vague word. As used here,
it means general disposition, habit of spirit, temperament. The emo-
tion which appears in a style may be of a thousand sorts: violent in
Carlyle; playful and whimsical in Charles Lamb; genial and banter-
ing in Arnold Bennett; exaggeratedly humorous in Mark Twain;
austerely but passionately logical in Matthew Arnold; enthusiastic
but careful in T. H. Huxley; graceful, familiar, and well-bred in
Stevenson; painstaking, plain, and sincere in Defoe.
Different subjects and different audiences may demand a variety
of personalities at different times from the same author. A socialist
talking to a group of miners would have a style flaring with indig-
nation; talking to a board of mediation, he would have a forceful,
logical style; talking to an audience made up from the general
public, he would have a persuasive, good-humored style; and writing
a book about the economic condition of the poorer classes, he might
have a sympathetic, compassionate, warm-hearted style. Which style
he adopts depends entirely on his judgment of the fitness of things.
Before setting pen to paper, a writer ought to decide quite
methodically what personality he intends to adopt in his contem-
plated work. Doing so is not admitting duplicity or insincerity.
Dickens could write half-a-dozen books like the Pickwick Papers
and David Copperfield, and then adopt an entirely new manner in
the Tale of Two Cities; Scott could write the swashbuckling Ivan-
hoe and the tender character study, Heart of Midlothian; Poe could
write the Gothic study in madnes^ and the supernatural, The Fall
of the House of Usher, and then turn to a "story of ratiocination"
like The Gold Bug; and George Eliot could write realistic studies
of English village life such as Silas Marner and Adam Bede, and
then turn to an historical novel of the Italian Renaissance, Romola.
Different subjects and different occasions demand different styles.
A writer should deliberately adopt a style which seems to him
to fit the subject, the occasion, and his own purpose. If his purpose
is to ridicule chivalry, he will adopt one style; if it is to glorify
136 Creative Writing
chivalry, he will adopt another. If his purpose is to write a delight-
ful essay on raising vegetables, he will adopt one style; if it is to
give information about raising vegetables, he will adopt another.
If his purpose is to write a thrilling account of a Civil War battle,
he will adopt one style; if it is to criticize the strategy employed
by General McClellan, he will adopt another. His writing person-
ality will shift like a windmill with every change of the wind; and,
like a windmill, it can do valuable work only if it is able to shift.
One caution must be voiced. Some writers are versatile enough
to possess many writing personalities; some can have only two or
three; and some can have but one. By experimenting, every writer
should determine which personalities serve him best, and which
make him ridiculous (or worse). Those which he can assume con-
vincingly are, of course, those which he should adopt. The others
he should attempt only for his own private edification. Just here
it is that teachers and advisers may be of genuine assistance. They
may give a writer impartial judgment on his different personalities.
They may tell him to preserve and develop one, reform another,
and do immediate execution on a third. Counsel such as this is
almost indispensable. Literary groups give it among themselves;
composition classes encourage it; teachers and personal advisers
should take it as their chief business.
The very first duty of a writer of anything but textbooks is to
develop some sort of personality in his style. Without it he will not
be read; with it, and even with little else besides, he will be read by
even very wise people.
CHAPTER VII
Imagery
1. ART. From the hundreds of definitions of art which have been
written, the definition which seems best, and which is certainly the
most useful for our present purposes, is that of the Italian philoso-
pher, Benedetto Croce. To Croce, art is "intuition." That is to say,
art is "Vision/ 'contemplation/ 'imagination/ 'fancy/ 'figurations/
'representations/ and so on/'
Art is derived from the artist's power to conceive and bring forth
images. These images are not an accumulation of parts; they are
not a series; they are not a group of interdependent organs. But
each image is a oneness, a totality, a nexus of parts. It is an intuition
conceived and brought forth perfect. When we see a man, we do
not see an accumulation of arms, legs, ears, hands, feet, and so on;
we see a man. Art is like that. The artist conceives images com-
plete, and (if he is a true artist) he conveys them to other people
complete.
These two principles imagination and completeness are the
bone and sinew of art. Historical fiction differs from history in that
the one makes the reader see the past, and the other makes him
know it. Architecture differs from mere construction in that one
makes an observer see a building as an image, and the other makes
him know it as something to be used. Painting differs from photog-
raphy in that one creates a unified image, while the other creates a
collection of unselected images.
Art need not be beautiful; it need not teach a lesson; it need not
be true or untrue; it need not be moral or immoral; it need not be
useful or non-useful; it need not be realistic or unrealistic. That
which is perceived as a complete and unified image merely that
is art.
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138 Creative Writing
With this conception of art as intuition, or perfectly conceived
image, Croce includes another idea. It is that the real source of the
image is feeling; that, indeed, the image is but a symbol of feel-
ing that art is feeling made image. Suppose we give a concrete
illustration. The neighbor owns a police dog. To me the dog is a
useless, noisy, meddlesome animal; to the neighbor he is a joyous,
faithful, courageous friend; to the casual passerby he is a danger-
ous and detestable creature who may bite unoffending strangers
without provocation. The three of us, therefore, if we described
the dog or painted a picture of him, would create three quite
different images. Our individual feeling about the dog would de-
termine what he would look like in our artistic efforts.
In the same way, the Middle Ages, for example, may be imagina-
tively conceived as dashing and adventurous (as in Sir Walter
Scott), superstitious and ridiculous (as in Mark Twain), gentle
and beautiful (as in Maurice Hewlitt), or mysterious and super-
natural (as in Cabell). A story of the South may be romantic and
gallant (in Thomas N. Page) or sordid and ugly (in William Faulk-
ner ) . Negro life may be gently humorous ( in Joel Chandler Harris ) ,
grimly tragic (in Richard Wright), or broadly farcical (in Roark
Bradford). Feeling alone determines what the image is to be.
2. KINDS OF IMAGES. We have been speaking of images as if all
of them were pictures. And as a matter of fact, the great majority
of images do appeal to the sense of sight by being made up of de-
tails of color, form, and motion. Yet other sorts of images are
equally the material of art images of sound, of taste, of touch, of
smell, of temperature, of sensations in the vital organs and in the
muscles. Except for images of sound, most of the list seldom play
a part in writing. They deserve attention not only because they are
neglected, but because when they are used, they are generally
effective.
An appeal to the senses is the only way to create images. Mere
factual knowledge is worse than nothing so far as art is concerned.
To say that a building faces south; that its reception hall is forty-
five feet long and twenty-two feet wide; that the hall contains
three tables and fourteen chairs this means nothing at all to one
Imagery 139
looking for artistic writing. And no more does it mean anything
that a man is about five feet and ten inches tall; that he weighs
about one hundred and fifty pounds; that his eyes are blue and his
hair dark. Such exact details are not imaginative. They are scientific.
They have no place in artistic writing.
3. IMAGINATIVE WORDS. Some words, or patterns of words, make
pleasing or suggestive sound-images irrespective of their meaning.
But since we have already spoken of these sound-images made by
words, we must confine ourselves here to the images involved in
the accepted meanings of certain words. That is, we must talk of
words that recall sense impressions.
a. Concrete Words. It is an old principle that concrete words
are preferable to abstract. They are preferable because they are
imaginative.
"It was autumn," is not so imaginative as, "The last of the leaves
were falling, and the earth was spread with brown and gold."
"The sun rose," is not so imaginative as, "The red and swollen
sun lifted itself over the eastern wall."
"In winter," is not so imaginative as, "When icicles hang by the
wall."
The entire Bible, a book of precept, philosophy, and theology,
where, of all places, one might expect teeming abstractions, is in-
stead a treasure-house of concrete imagery.
"Wickedness is vain," becomes, "He that soweth iniquity shall
reap vanity."
"The froward shall have many hardships," becomes, "Thorns and
stones are in the way of the froward."
"Life is better than death," becomes, "A living dog is better than a
dead lion."
"There shall be peacefulness," becomes, "The lion and the lamb
shall lie down together, and a little child shall lead them."
"They shall have no decent burial," becomes, "And their dead
bodies shall be for meat unto the fowls of heaven, and to the beasts
of the earth."
In every good writer there is a similar urge to transform the ab-
stract into the concrete. Hardly a bald, factual statement exists but
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it can be dignified and vivified by concrete imaginative expression.
The simple fact that it is dawn becomes in Hamlet:
The morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
In the same play, the simple fact that the player was much affected
becomes concrete:
All his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in *s aspect,
A broken voice.
Nor does Hamlet say, 'Who insults me?" but
Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across,
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face,
Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i' the throat
As deep as to the lungs, who does me this?
Stevenson does not say, "Death makes life lonely for the living," but,
"There are empty chairs, solitary walks, and single beds at night."
Irving does not say, "It grew darker in Westminster Abbey," but,
"The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the
kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments as-
sumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze
crept through the aisles into the cold breath of the grave."
b; Poll/symbolic Words. All words symbolize something; but
some words symbolize several things. Naturally, a writer's meaning
becomes richer if he can substitute the latter sort of word for words
that symbolize only one object, idea, or emotion. The following is a
list intended to suggest the possibilities of such substitutions. In the
list, the first of each pair of words appeals to one sense only; the sec-
ond word appeals to several senses.
Black sight
Pitchy sight and touch
White sight
Snowy sight and temperature
Gray sight
Leaden sight and weight
Imagery
Sticky touch
Mucilagenous touch and sight
Sore touch
Raw touch and sight
Hot temperature
Fiery temperature and sight
Soft touch
Cottony touch and sight
Weep sight
Sob sight, sound, and motion
Cut sight
Chop sight, sound, and motion
c. Atmospheric Words. These words with their complex imagery
are close kin to the next sort of words we shall consider, namely,
words with atmosphere. To indicate what is meant by "atmosphere,"
we have only to recall the old joke about the foreign gentleman who
complimented the American woman: "What a lovely hide you have!"
Hide was just what the gentleman meant; but the atmosphere of
the word is wrong: no lady would endure it. In the same way, we
cannot write (as in the old example), "The lady held a lily in her
fist," though that is what she did. We cannot write, "George III went
crazy," but must say, "George III became insane." We cannot write,
"Heifetz is one of the world's greatest fiddlers," but must say, "Hei-
fetz is one of the world's greatest violinists." These illustrations ex-
plain atmosphere very well. It is the aura which surrounds a word,
the associations linked to it, the ideas, images, and emotions which
come to the reader when he chances on the word.
The business of the writer is not merely to avoid such ludicrous
errors as those mentioned above, but to find words which will enrich
his meaning by adding clusters of appropriate images to his words.
Thus, to use an example already mentioned in another connection,
the sentence, "She lay between white sheets," tells the reader merely
11$ Creative Writing
that the linen was clean. But if it reads, "She lay between snowy
sheets/' it tells the reader that the sheets are cool as well as clean.
To the sick man, the wrinkles in the bedclothes looked enormous.
To the sick man, the wrinkles in the bedclothes looked mountainous.
The last word has associations of vast irregularities spread over wide
spaces, of laborious travel, of unfeeling ruggedness. Since these
words fit the sick man's conception, the word mountainous enriches
the simple idea of bigness.
He moistened the sick man's face with a damp cloth.
He swabbed the sick man's face with a soggy rag.
The first sentence does the sick man a kindness; the second abuses
him. "Swab" is associated with mops roughly handled; "soggy," with
solids left too long in questionable liquids; and "rag," with casual
salvaging from dirty clothes.
Keats writes, "I set her on my pacing steed." Suppose he had sub-
stituted the plain word "horse" for "steed." How different would have
been the effect. Sir Walter Scott writes, "He mounted his charger."
What if he had written "pony" instead?
Shakespeare begins a sonnet:
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
The word "choirs" calls up far more images than the word itself ac-
tually signifies. It calls up a picture of the entire abbey ruined and
desolate, with a winter wind wailing through it.
Diction such as this means more than it says. It makes use not
only of the reader's knowledge of word-significance, but also of his
experiences, his reading, his emotions, his imaginings. It is like music
which calls a thousand pictures to mind, though each picture may be
only half-perceived and half -comprehended. Tennyson had this kind
of diction in mind when he wrote of Virgil's poetry:
All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word.
Imagery 1%3
d. Figures of Speech. Figures of speech, like the reflections in a
lake, interest us, somehow, even more than the realities themselves.
It is a human characteristic to find pleasure in recognizing similari-
ties. We like to see imitations and miniatures; we like toys and dolls
and mannikins; we like to note how well the imitation resembles the
real. This trait it is which makes us think on looking at a picture,
"How like reality!" and on looking at a landscape, "How like a pic-
ture!" It makes us think of a story, "How like real life!" and of an
incident in real life, "How like a story!" This pleasure which we de-
rive from the recognition of similarities makes us always interested
in figures of speech. For instance, we may not be at all interested in
an ordinary drop of water, or in a lamp globe. But when someone
says, "The lamp globe clung to the ceiling like a heavy drop of water
just ready to plump down to the floor," we take notice. We may not
be interested in either ladies' veils or flies. But when someone says,
"The veil over the woman's face was like a spider's web with black
flies caught in it here and there," we take notice. And we may not be
interested in either church choirs or dead boughs. But when some-
one writes, "Boughs that shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs
where late the sweet birds sang," we take notice. /
This demonstration of an essential unity in objects unlike in most
respects stimulates the imagination, and gives the reader an oppor-
tunity to exercise the faculty for recognition already mentioned. The
recognition may not involve mere pictorial images, as in the three
examples just given.
(a) It may involve the recognition in inanimate objects of attri-
butes essentially human, as in, "No longer mourn for me than thou
shalt hear The surly sullen belT; or, "He carried a sort of suitcase
made of imitation leather which had long since grown too tired to
keep up the illusion."
(b) It may involve the recognition in abstract ideas of concrete
processes, as in, "Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find
it after many days"; or, "Silence shall fall like dew"; or, "Goodness
and mercy shall follow me."
(c) It may involve the recognition of an object or of a process
from the mention of a word that suggests the object or the process,
144 Creative Writing
as in, "The scepter of Egypt shall pass away"; "Cold steel will solve
the problem"; "The house of Judah shall perish"; "He keeps the finest
stable in the county"; "He that lives by the sword shall die by the
sword"; "The machine he drives is the handsomest in the city"; "The
whole country was in arms." The difficulty with most of these last,
however, is that one must be acquainted with them in order to un-
derstand them; yet if one is already acquainted with them, one finds
them trite.
The use of figures of speech can be abused. A writer, especially a
writer of prose, may produce so many figures that his work sounds
affected; or (a much more common fault) he may make comparisons
so far-fetched that his work seems strained. An example of such
strained figurative writing in verse is this by John Davidson:
The windows, Argus-eyed with knotted panes
That under heavy brows of roses blink
Blind guard, have never wept, with hailstones stung.
No antique, gnarled, and wrinkled round wood porch
Whiskered with hollyhocks in this old thorpe
Has ever felt the razor of the east.
All these figures, fanciful as they may be, sound forced and un-
natural, as if the poet were trying hard to be poetic, as if he were
going out of his way to be metaphoric.
A third abuse of figures is the over-elaboration of comparisons.
How much better would the following vivid metaphor of David-
son's have been if the last phrase had been omitted. The poet is
describing a battle scene between the Scotch and the English:
Now they are hand to hand!
How short a front! How close! They're sewn together
With steel cross-stitches, halbert over sword,
Spear across lance, and death the purfied seam!
Addison severely criticizes Cowley for similar over-elaborations
of metaphor. Poets, he says, have often "taken an advantage from
the doubtful meaning of the word fire, to make an infinite number
of witticisms":
Cowley observing the cold regard of his mistress's eyes, and at the
same time their power of producing love in him, considers them as
Imagery 145
burning-glasses made of ice; and finding himself able to live in the great-
est extremities of love, concludes the torrid zone to be habitable. When
his mistress has read his letter written in juice of lemon, by holding it
to the fire, he desires her to read it over a second time by love's flames.
When she weeps, he wishes it were inward heat that distilled those drops
from the limbec. When she is absent, he is beyond eighty, that is, thirty
degrees nearer the pole than when she is with him. His ambitious love
is a fire that naturally mounts upwards; his happy love is the beams of
heaven, and his unhappy love flames of hell. When it does not let him
sleep, it is a flame that sends up no smoke; when it is opposed by coun-
sel and advice, it is a fire that rages the more by the winds blowing
upon it.
When the freshman wrote the following, he also was guilty of
tiresome over-elaboration:
Life is a game of bridge in which luck is always trumps. [If he had
left off here, he would have had an interesting metaphor, but he dragged
out the comparison.] The suits are the different parts of our career,
Spades being our profession, Diamonds being material fortunes, Hearts
being our loves, and Clubs being our power to overcome opposition. The
ace in each suit is our natural ability; the king is our education or train-
ing; the queen is the wife or mother who helps us; and the jack is our
closest friend. The other cards are merely our acquaintances. In the game,
we are matched against other people who have different gifts from those
of ours, and who try to gain what we gain. Our business is to know our
own strength and the strength of others, and to play our cards wisely. We
try to get what we can by means of the small cards, and guard our more
important cards closely to keep others from overcoming them with their
superior gifts.
And so on. Much of this is ingenious, but it soon grows boresome.
A fourth kind of fault sometimes accompanying the use of figura-
tive language is the mixed metaphor. Probably few people would
say, as did the freshman, "I may be up a tree; but I will fight to the
last ditch." Nor would few people correct the mixed metaphor, "He
went drifting down the sands of time on flowery beds of ease," as
did the freshman, who made it read, "He went drifting down the
sands of time on an oasis." But Oscar Wilde can write:
To think of that grand living after death
In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,
Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath.
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We may possibly believe that a cup could be filled to the bursting
point, instead of overflowing; but we cannot believe that it would
burst for breath. Wilde writes elsewhere of the grave,
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep.
He forgets here that a wornb has no relation to a tomb except to
rhyme with it in the next line.
4. IMAGINATIVE DETAILS. The subject matter of the artist is not
the general, as it is with the scientist, but the particular; not the class,
but the individual. He is not to make us see what horses look like,
but what a horse looks like and a man, a train-coach, a lawn, a bird.
Maupassant tells how Flaubert trained him to observe a cab horse
until he found how that one horse differed from fifty other cab
horses, and then to express in words the distinctive details of that
particular horse. Finding distinctive and imaginative details should
be the chief business of any artist.
a. Familiar Details. The details need not be garnered from re-
mote or visionary places, or from marvelous and romantic happen-
ings. In general, they are more pleasing if they come from the realm
of the commonplace and the familiar.
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see.
Such images as the following, familiar as our own hand, de-
light us:
She put down the dish, wiped her palm along the side of her hip, and
shook hands with the visitor.
Fantastically, as if ghosts were eating, she heard only the clinking of
spoons touching glasses, and the low clatter of forks against plates; but
no voices.
Putting his thumb to the side of his nose, and leaning far forward at
the waist, he blew with a loud, fluid snort.
As she ascended the stairs before him, he noticed her cheap cotton
stockings with tiny bits of lint sticking out all over them.
Imagery
I watched her buy a package of gum, open the end of the cerise wax-
paper wrapper, and extract a flat stick.
In preparing lemons for the tea, she first carefully sliced off the pithy
nipple at the end of each lemon.
b. Unfamiliar Details. Even when we are describing objects or
scenes unfamiliar to the reader, we must translate them into terms
of the familiar. Thus, Kipling gives us:
Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust
with a flop of a frog.
Willa Gather speaks of "the horny backbones of mountains,'* and
describes sunset on the desert thus :
The scattered mesa tops, red with the afterglow, one by one lost their
light, like candles going out.
In one sentence Ruskin pictures "the heaving mountains rolling
against [the sunrise] like waves of a wild sea"; glaciers blazing in the
sunlight "like mighty serpents with scales of fire"; and the "whole
heaven one scarlet canopy . . . interwoven with a roof of waving
flame."
All these figures make us perceive images beyond our experience
by recalling to us images within our experience. Much image-making
proceeds in this way.
c. Incongruous Details. The matter of old images in new connec-
tions deserves further comment. We may call up particularly vivid
images by means of an incongruity between details as they usually
occur and as they appear in some newly imagined situation. Homer,
for example, describes one of his warriors as having forgotten his
whip when he drove out in his chariot, and belaboring the horses
with the butt of his spear. The incongruity between the object and
its use makes the incident highly visual. Similar descriptions follow:
The carpenter took up a sharp wood-chisel, and proceeded to pare his
nails.
As he sat in the chair, he bent over and scratched his shin with a
ruler.
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His arms piled full of books, Dr. Watson gave directions to the li-
brarian, pointing here and there with his chin.
She stood at the kitchen table vigorously rolling out biscuit dough with
a short length of iron pipe.
Sometimes an incongruity of environment creates visual images:
The tops of a dozen parked automobiles showed above the parapet on
the roof of a six-story building.
A large yellow butterfly had drifted into the room through an open
window, and was hovering over a vase of cut-flowers at the visitor's el-
bow.
The burro stood motionless, with head down and lower lip drooping,
full in the blazing sunlight; two or three panting chickens had taken
refuge in the shadow of his body.
An incongruity between the object and the thing of which it is
made may serve the purposes of visualization:
The front gate was merely the ornamental head-piece of an iron bed
swung by one side to a fence post.
The sideboards of the Negro yard-man's small wagon were two green
Venetian blinds placed on edge.
The Negro chief had a pierced lower lip through which he had stuck
a new yellow pencil stolen from the white men's camp.
He wore a finger ring of braided hair.
The types of details mentioned in this section do not by any means
exhaust the possibilities of the imagination. Far from it! They con-
stitute some of the most vivid types of details, but, after all, they are
only suggestive. They are guideposts to imagery, not the entire king-
dom.
5. IMAGINATIVE CONSTRUCTION. Often a writer can construct com-
plete images only by the use of several details, not just one like those
mentioned above. What these details shall be, and what the writer's
method of presenting them, depends entirely on the purpose of the
writer. His first duty, therefore, in trying to create a full and unified
Imagery
image is to ask himself what his purpose is in presenting the image
to the reader.
a. Purpose in Imaginative Writing. The imaginative writer's pur-
pose is always one of the following: to paint a picture, to convey an
idea, or to convey or rouse a feeling. Most of the details cited in the
last section attempted to paint pictures. This next, a longer descrip-
tion from Flaubert's Salambo, does the same:
The heavy mill-stones were revolving in the dust, two cones of por-
phyry laid one upon the other, the upper, which had a funnel, being
turned upon the lower by means of strong bars which men pushed with
their breasts and arms, while others were yoked to them and pulled. The
friction of the straps had caused purulent sores about their arm-pits, such
as are seen on asses' withers; and the ends of the limp black rags which
barely covered their loins hung down and flapped against their hocks
like long tails. Their eyes were red, the shackles clanked about their feet,
and all their breasts rose and fell in unison. They were muzzled to pre-
vent them from eating the meal, and their hands were enclosed in gaunt-
lets without fingers so that they could not pick it up.
But some descriptions are meant to convey an idea. Shakespeare,
in the following song, does not mean to paint a picture, but to con-
vey an idea of winter's cold by appealing to several senses:
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, to-who,
A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, to-who,
A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
150 Creative Writing
This next, from George Eliot, is also intended to convey an idea of
quietness on Sunday morning:
You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in
the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only
crooning subdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he
would have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine
seemed to call all things to rest and not to labour; it was asleep itself on
the moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling together
with their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow stretched
languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found an excellent
spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs; and Alick, the shepherd, in his new
smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting, half-standing on the
grana-y steps.
And this next, from Keats, does not attempt to give a picture of
autumn a thing manifestly impossible but to convey an idea of
what autumn does:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruits the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm summer days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
The third purpose an imaginative writer may have, to convey or
rouse a feeling, is often intermingled with the other two. Thus, both
the George Eliot paragraph and the Keats stanza just quoted are
probably intended as much to awaken a feeling of peace and las-
situde in the reader as to convey an idea. The following passage from
Daudet, however, is written only with the purpose of conveying a
feeling of sadness; it gives only the vaguest sort of picture:
The little Dauphin is ill; the little Dauphin is dying. In all the churches
of the kingdom the Holy Sacrament remains exposed night and day, and
great tapers burn, for the recovery of the royal child. The streets of the
Imagery 151
old capital are sad and silent, the bells ring no more, the carriages slacken
their pace. . . . All the castle is in a flutter. Chamberlains and major-
domos run up and down the marble stair-ways. The galleries are full of
pages and courtiers in silken apparel, who hurry from one group to an-
other, begging in low tones for news. Upon the wide perrons the maids
of honor, in tears, exchange low courtesies and wipe their eyes with
daintily embroidered handkerchiefs. 1
This next, from The Tempest, likewise tries to rouse a feeling rather
than convey a clear-cut image :
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The eloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Much imaginative writing, however, is concerned with both pure
imagery and feeling. Poe, for instance, is famous for his passages
which create pictures, and at the same time rouse emotions:
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of
the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had
been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of
country; and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on,
within view of the melancholy House of Usher. ... I looked upon the
scene before me upon the mere house, and the simple landscape fea-
tures 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 de-
cayed trees with an utter depression of soul.
Irving's description of evening in Westminster Abbey, already
quoted, is another excellent example of imagery created and feeling
roused in the same passage; and the first three stanzas of Gray's
"Elegy in a Country Churchyard" are another.
1 From Alphonse Daudet's "The Death of the Dauphin/' in Pastels in Prose,
copyright, 1890 and 1918, by Harper & Brothers. Reprinted by permission of
the publishers.
Creative Writing
b. Selection of Details. Now, suppose a writer has determined
definitely the purpose he has in mind in creating an image; his next
step is to decide just which details of the image he is to use. Obvi-
ously he cannot possibly use every detail; for if he did, he might,
like Agassiz's student, spend days describing a three-inch fish, or
write an encyclopedia on what he sees in walking across the campus.
He must select, and select rigorously. Selection is so vital a business
to the artist that it has given rise to many an aphorism that "art is
but selection"; that a piece of art "is to be judged less by what it
contains than by what it does not contain"; and that "the genius of
the artist consists in his knowing what to leave out."
If, lor example, the artist is trying to give an idea that the weather
is very cold, he will not tell the reader that the cattle are tucked
away snug and content in their barn, and that people are cozy on
the warm hearthstone. If he is trying to give a feeling of sadness, he
will not tell about the private balls, the parties, the gaiety, and the
love-making which will occur no matter how many Dauphins die.
And if he is a criminal lawyer trying to paint a picture of a murder,
he will paint it far differently from the way the district attorney
paints a picture of the same murder.
In all these descriptions, nobody is necessarily falsifying details;
but each is selecting certain details and omitting others. A man may
be a regular church attendant, he may be charitable, he may be a
good husband and a kind father, he may have friends among the
most honest people in his city but he may falsify accounts in the
bank of which he is president. A cold morning may be brisk and
cheerful weather to some people, and it may be bitterly hard to
others. The Negro yard-man may be a subject of humor to some peo-
ple, and a subject of tragedy to others. Seldom can any writer paint
things just as they would appear to the scientist, to the camera, or to
the impartial observer. Nearly always the image created depends on
the writer's selection of certain details which affect him, and which,
he hopes, will affect the reader, and on the omission of certain other
details. And his selections and omissions depend altogether on his
purpose.
This does not mean that the writer should give the impression of
Imagery 153
being biased or purposeful. Quite the contrary! The reader must
never be allowed even to think that other details exist, or that the
writer is not being scrupulously exact in his description. Neverthe-
less, the fact remains that the entire responsibility for the image, the
idea, or the feeling conveyed rests squarely in the writers hands.
What the image, the idea, or the feeling shall be depnds on him, and
not on what he is describing.
c. Arrangement of Details. Up to this point, we have seen that
the fundamental requirement for good imagery is a certain purpose
on the part of the writer, which purpose guides him in the selection
of details. Furthermore, his purpose sometimes guides him in the ar-
rangement of details after he has selected them. Thus, if his purpose
is merely to convey an idea that a day is cold or hot, that a family
lives in squalid surroundings, that a room looks neat, that a certain
street corner is busy, or other such ideas, he need do no more than
give a series of details selected for the purpose in mind and arranged
more or less at random. Shakespeare's winter song, Keats's stanza on
autumn, and Eliot's description of a Sunday morning (all quoted
above) are examples of such random arrangement of details.
The same sort of random arrangement, with usually a more careful
effort toward climax, is common in description the purpose of which
is to rouse emotion.
But when the writer's purpose is to paint a picture, he can seldom
resort to a mere series of details and depend on their cumulative ef-
fect. Instead, he must arrange his details with such care that the
reader will receive a unified and complete image that will satisfy
Croce's definition of intuition.
(1) // the subject of description is changing, or if the author's
point of view is changing, the chronological order of arrangement
of details is usually best. The description of a butterfly emerging
from its cocoon, of a tide coming in, of a boat race, of a prize fight,
of a football game, of the emotion one feels during a battle, of in-
ward sensations one has when he takes opium, of bodily pains the
description of all such changing subjects must almost necessarily
begin with the first thing that happens, and proceed to the next, and
the next, and so on to the end.
154 Creative Writing
Similarly, a description of what one sees during a walk down the
street, or an automobile ride into the country, or a canoe trip down
the river, or a tour abroad such descriptions of objects observed
while the writer's point of view changes must almost necessarily be-
gin with the first thing that happens, and proceed to the next, and
the next, and so on.
( 2 ) Describing changeless objects from a motionless point of view
requires a more elaborate technique in the arrangement of details.
Various objects require different methods. But most of the methods
may be included under one of two sorts of possible arrangements:
details as they are arranged in space, and details as they are ob-
served.
As for the first of these objects may be described according to
their arrangement in perspective. For example, I may describe the
lawn I see directly under my window, then the hedge on the far side
of the lawn, then the street beyond the hedge, then the patch of
woods beyond the street, then the houses beyond the woods, and
then the fields beyond the houses stretching away to the horizon.
Thus I should proceed from the nearest objects to those successively
farther and farther away. Or I may reverse the process, begin at the
horizon and work inward toward the lawn beneath my window. It
maKes little difference which method I follow as long as I stick to
the order I have adopted.
Somewhat similar to perspective description is description of de-
tails according to their arrangement in space regardless of perspec-
tive. In describing a room, for instance, I may begin with objects on
my right as I enter, and then proceed all around the room until I
have made a complete circle back to the objects on my left. Or in
describing a man, I may begin with his head and work downward
to his feet. In this method, too, an order once adopted ought not to
be changed without a warning to the reader.
Now about the other method of arranging changeless objects ob-
served from a motionless point of view. Details may be presented as
they are observed. For example, a person pictured as coming from
the darkness into a brightly lighted room would not notice at first
a book lying on a small table over in the corner of the room. Instead,
Imagery 155
dazzled for a moment, he would see only bright lights and people;
he would observe next the larger pieces of furniture, the rugs, and
the hangings; then he would become aware of more subdued colors
here and there, and of smaller objects in the room; and finally he
might perceive the book on the table. The same sort of gradual ac-
commodation of vision would occur if the person went from light
into darkness, or if he suddenly struck a light or extinguished one.
The writer must accommodate his arrangement of details to the
stages of accommodation which the person's eyes undergo.
But even where there is no change of light, an observer ordinarily
sees certain aspects of an object before he sees others. Usually, he
first gets a general impression, forms a large, vague image, and later
on fills in his outline with particular details. Accordingly, a writer
should usually follow this arrangement in his work by proceeding
from the description of general details to the description of particular
details. If he is describing a man, he says something about "a short
fat man" ( the general impression ) and then adds details about "rolls
of fat overhanging his collar," "a deep crease running around his
wrist between hand and arm," "little dimples on each knuckle," and
so on (the particular details). He says of a house, "a brick cottage of
the English type" (general impression) and then adds something
about "steep gables," "small-paned, casement windows," "a beam of
timber over the door," and so on (particular details).
Often the general image may be given first as a type image. For
example, a type form might be "a horseshoe-shaped bend in the
river," "an L-shaped house," "an enormous round man." A type color
might be "a village of red roofs and white walls," "a hillside rain-
bow-colored with flowers," "the chartreuse green of the shallow sea."
A type movement might be "rotation," "undulation," "oscillation,"
"convergence," "divergence," "descent," "ascent." A type sound might
1 f . . 1 u yy yy , i yy
be clatter, hum, murmur, roar, swish, ring.
Finding the type image in the other common senses requires a
little knowledge of physiology. The vaguely defined sense of touch
is limited to distinguishing between the following sensations: soft or
hard, smooth or rough, sharp or blunt, wet or dry, large or small,
adherent or non-adherent, resistant or non-resistant, heavy or light,
156 Creative Writing
thick or thin, hot or cold, moving or resting. But we frequently use
figurative words to express type images of touch: velvety, silky, icy,
syrupy, glassy, and so on.
The type images that we can make from the sense of smell are said
to be confined to the following odors: spicy, flowery, fruity, resinous,
burnt, and foul. But here again we are likely to use comparisons to
express the image.
All images of taste are composed of salt, sour, sweet, or bitter. To
these, however, may be added irritants or caustics such as peppery
or burning; textures such as greasy, soft, tough; humidity, or relative
dryness or moistness; and temperature.
In expressing type images of any class, we often find it useful to
bring in figures of speech, as in some of the examples already given:
L-shaped, rainbow-colored, and silky.
It is only after he has given his type image that the writer faces
the problem of filling in with particular details. George Eliot writes,
for example, "If ever a girl looked as if she had been made of roses,
that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock." There is the gen-
eral picture. Details of the girl's rose-likeness follow:
For her hat was trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprin-
kled on a white ground. There was nothing but pink and white about
her, except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes.
Maupassant describes his Two Little Soldiers: "Being little and
thin, they looked quite lost in their coats, which were too big and
too long." There is the general picture. The author goes on to present
particular details arranged in the descending order from the large
and noticeable to the small and inconspicuous:
The sleeves hung down over their hands, and they were much bothered
by their enormous red breeches, which compelled them to walk wide.
Under their stiff, high shakos their faces seemed like mere nothings
two poor, hollow Breton faces, simple in an almost animal simplicity,
and with blue eyes that were gentle and calm. 2
J. B. Priestley writes, "Miss Potter had a sleek, almost electroplated
blonde head." This detail describes Miss Potter's general appear-
2 From "Little Soldier" in The Odd Number, copyright, 1889 and 1917, by
Harper & Brothers. Reprinted here by permission of the publishers.
Imagery 157
ance; we know at once that she is a blonde. Moreover, it is the first
of a series of details presented according to their arrangement in
space from the head downward:
No eyebrows; very round blue eyes; a button of a nose, so small and
heavily powdered that it resembled the chalked end of a billiard cue;
and a mouth that was a perpetual crimson circle of faint astonishment.
The upper half of her, her neck and shoulders and the thin arms ending
so curiously in little dumpy hands, was poor; but her legs were really
beautiful. 3
These three paragraphs of description are enough to suggest the
varied possibilities of arrangement of details after the type image
is presented. Rules to cover all images are out of the question; the
writer must decide for himself what method he is to follow. Yet he
will find it nearly always safe to begin with the large and the gen-
eral, and to proceed, by any method that seems fit, to the small and
the particular. This is a good working principle.
Nowadays, numerous details and elaborate descriptions of char-
acters in the Sir- Walter-Scott manner are out of fashion. Conse-
quently, many writers content themselves with presenting only the
general type image, followed immediately by one or two short,
vividly imaginative, particular images. Arnold Bennett presents M.
Chirac:
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face
ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance.
A little more elaborately, in Great Expectations, Dickens describes
Mrs. Joe Gargery:
She was tall and bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened
over her figure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable
bib in front, that was stuck full of pins and needles.
And Stevenson uses the same method here:
In the dock, the centre of men's eyes, there stood a whey-coloured,
misbegotten caitiff, Duncan Jopp, on trial for his life. . . . He kept his
head bowed and his hands clutched on the rail; his hair dropped in his
eyes, and at times he flung it back; and now he glanced about the audi-
3 From The Good Companions, copyright, 1929, by Harper & Brothers. Re-
printed here by permission of the publishers.
158 Creative Writing
ence in a sudden fellness of terror, and now looked in the face of his
judge and gulped. 4
r
6. INTERPRETATIVE DESCRIPTION. The pure image, the way a thing
looks, is not always sufficient. Croce's definition of art, if we recall
it, has it that art is feeling made image image symbolizing feeling.
This definition is perfectly sound, for the best imaginative writing
passes beyond pure description to interpretative description. That
is, to description not only of the external appearance of objects, but
also to the implications which the writer feels lie behind the surface.
In passages quoted above, the writers read into details of their char-
acters "faint astonishment," "animal simplicity," "irritable tension,"
"cold lire," and "fellness of terror." And daily people speak of a
"weak chin," a "malicious smile," and a "brutal mouth." Even inani-
mate objects or natural scenes may be rendered interpretatively: the
writer may read into his subject whatever he thinks it means, as
George Eliot, in the description of Sunday morning already quoted,
read peacefulness into farmyard objects, and as Poe, in the beginning
paragraphs of The Fall of the House of Usher, read nameless terror
and desolation into scenes along the way. What the interpretation
shall be depends, of course, on the personal feeling and the personal
judgment of the writer: to one person, a mouth may look "brutal"
to another, "affectionate"; to one person a smile may look "malicious"
to another, "mischievous." But all this brings us back to where we
started: the picture any reader receives from an imaginative descrip-
tion depends entirely on the writer's purpose, idea, and feeling in
constructing the description.
EXERCISES
1. Art.
a. By writing a few sentences on five of the following subjects, try
to see how many descriptive details you can include and yet give a
unified impression. Fifteen is a considerable number.
An old lady.
A man's (woman's) bedroom.
4 From Weir of Hermiston, chap. iii. Reprinted here by permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons.
Imagery 159
Your classroom.
Small boats tied up at wharves along a riverside.
A view from a hilltop.
A cloud effect.
A house.
A forest early in the morning or late in the evening.
A city street at some particular hour of the day.
A beach.
b. Do the descriptions you have just written convey any feeling?
If not, rewrite them in such a way as to make them convey feeling.
Rewrite one description several times so as to make it convey a differ-
ent feeling with each revision, but do not add more details.
2. Kinds of Images.
Write a description of your breakfast this morning in terms of the
following senses:
Taste.
Smell.
Temperature.
Sound (include sounds made by yourself and by others at the
table).
3. Imaginative Words.
a. Express concretely the following abstract statements:
It was in the middle of summer.
He is lazy.
I feel gloomy.
The wind is blowing.
He walked rapidly.
She is a silly little thing.
I dislike everything about him.
The good life is not an easy life.
He began to take a pride in his appearance.
The entire nation was distressed about his death.
b. Find a polysymbolic word or phrase for each of the italicized
words in the following sentences:
Her face was pale,
His eyes were hard.
The jewels shone in the darkness.
He put the book on the table.
He looked out on the soft green of new leaves.
A cold wind was blowing.
160 Creative Writing
The axeman cut off the victim's head.
He passed me hurriedly.
He marched stiffly, like a toy soldier.
He drank tea and ate cookies.
He turned the pages rapidly.
He held out a cold hand.
The roof jell in.
c. Explain the connotations of the italicized words or phrases in
the following passage:
To her right, she saw the shattered array of a dying cornfield.
The stalks leaned stiffly at infinite angles, fluttering tattered
brown pennants in the wind. She gave a melancholy shudder as
she stared at the corn-rows: this same field, only two months
past, had been gloriously green, flaunting its plumed tassels like
cloth of gold. Then it had been heavy and pregnant with immi-
nent fertility, but now it was the graveyard of summer. Life had
departed from the field.
M. G. Williams
d. Use each of the following words in a figure of speech in a sen-
tence:
watchman cloy adorn opulence
patrolman glut garnish affluence
sentinel g or g e whitewash competence
sentry sate bedizen riches
penurious
destitute
impecunious
beggared
4. Imaginative Details.
a. During the course of about two weeks, accumulate from your
observation a list of forty familiar details like those quoted in Section 4
above.
b. Examine the descriptions you wrote under Sections 1 and 2
above to determine where you might have used figures of speech
effectively. Try to invent figures of speech which could be applied to
details in the descriptions.
c. During the course of two weeks accumulate from your observa-
tion a list of forty details which are imaginative because of some
incongruity.
Imagery 161
5. Imaginative Construction.
a. Write three separate descriptive paragraphs about one of the
following topics. In the first paragraph, try to paint a picture; in the
second, try to convey an idea; and in the last, try to rouse a feeling.
An impatient, pushing crowd.
A hot summer day.
The home of a country relative.
A business office.
A horse (dog, cat, parrot).
A preacher in the pulpit.
A teacher before the class.
b. By selecting different details, rewrite the descriptive paragraph
you have just done so as to have it convey an opposite idea; an oppo-
site feeling.
Look about the classroom. What details would you select to sug-
gest that it is efficiently constructed and arranged? Inefficiently con-
structed and arranged? Cheerful? Cheerless?
Do the same for some view of the campus and its buildings.
c. List fifteen or twenty details which you can see from your win-
dow. Now (supposing that your purpose is to give a picture of the
scene) arrange these details in all the orders suggested in the text
above.
Do the same for the details which you can see from the window
of a train passing through a plains country; or a farming country; or
a mountainous country; or a flat marshy country; or a forest country.
Express in a sentence the type-form of each of the following:
A tree you know.
A flower.
Your favorite chair.
A strange bird in the zoo.
A building on the campus.
A lamp.
A town seen from an elevation.
An unusual breed of dog.
Express in a sentence the type-movement of each of the following:
An odd manner of walking which you have noticed.
The way a cat walks; runs; creeps.
The way a fly beats against a window pane.
The way a mathematics teacher writes a formula on the black-
board.
16% Creative Writing
The way someone gets out of bed in the morning.
The way an orchestra leader calls for a softening of the music.
Express in a sentence the type-sounds of the next ten noises you
lear.
Tell in a sentence how each of the following feels to your touch:
Different articles of your clothing.
Leaves of different plants.
The ground on a cold day; on a warm day; on a wet day.
A bunch of keys.
A bird which you hold in your hand.
A dog's head when you pat it.
The steering wheel of an automobile as you drive.
An electric light switch as you snap it on or off.
A thin rug as you step on it.
Try to express the type-smells and the type-tastes of each article
of food you can recall having eaten during the last day or two.
Distinguish carefully between the two types of details. In addition,
list and describe the next ten smells you notice.
If the class is not too large, the instructor may let each member
come to the front of the room, one person at a time, and read for two
or three minutes while the rest of the class writes a thumb-nail de-
scription of the reader in the manner suggested in Section 5 above.
6. Interpretative Description.
Enlarge two of the descriptions just written into longer, interpreta-
tive descriptions.
Write an interpretative description of one of the following:
An automobile.
A street.
A house.
A scene in nature.
A river.
An animal (cat, dog, horse, fish, bird, etc.).
PART TWO
The Writing of Exposition
CHAPTER VIII
The Nature of Exposition
1. DEFINITION. In trying to distinguish between exposition and
other forms of writing, we may well parody Coleridge's famous sen-
tence distinguishing between poetry and science: Exposition is that
species of prose composition which is opposed to works of narration
and description by proposing for its immediate object truth, not
pleasure. That is, exposition conveys ideas for the sake of instructing
the reader, not for the sake of pleasing him by emotional stimulation
or imagination.
To be sure, exposition may avail itself of narration and descrip-
tion, and may try to stimulate emotion and imagination in the reader;
but all this will be auxiliary to the main purpose of instruction. It
will not exist for its own sake. For instance, a plain factual history
of, say, England under the Hanovers will consist of quite as much
narrative as any novel; yet the history will be narrative not for the
sake of any pleasurable emotion it stirs in the reader, but for the
sake of the instruction it gives him. And an account of the way a
cotton gin or a cider press works may be almost pure description
the gleam of metal, the revolution of wheels, the meshing of cogs,
the motions of the workmen; but the description will exist primarily
to give the reader instruction, not merely to please his fancy by
means of vivid imagery.
2. THE FIELD OF EXPOSITION. An enormous proportion of all writ-
ing is expository. So vast, indeed, is the field of exposition that any
attempt merely to outline it is certain to fail. Exposition includes
news items, news articles, special features, editorials, and advertise-
ments; it includes magazine articles, book reviews, accounts of
travel, descriptions of places in the day's news, and descriptions of
social conditions; it includes political speeches, funeral orations,
165
Creative Writing
sermons, classroom lectures, and a large part of all conversation
about people and opinions; it includes textbooks, reference books,
compilations of statistics, criticisms, histories, and biographies; it in-
cludes laboratory directions, reports of experiments or observations,
building specifications, auditors' reports, and business letters. Even
poetry, when it becomes philosophic, is likely to be expository; and
those portions of fiction which analyze character, explain motives,
and describe situations are likewise expository.
3. THE USES OF EXPOSITION. The definition of exposition has al-
ready implied its use. Exposition is used to instruct. But instruction
may be of three sorts. First, it may be instruction in facts; second, it
may be instruction in the meaning of facts; and third, it may be in-
struction in a certain intellectual or emotional point of view.
By way of illustration, suppose a writer tells the number of battle
casualties in the First World War, the value of property destroyed in
the line of battle, the money spent by all nations conducting the war,
and the money spent on pensions, hospitals, and reconstruction since
the war. And suppose that, at the same time, he records the amount
of profits made by certain businesses in the war, the wages made by
workers supporting the combatants, the money made by American
citizens supplying armies with food and clothing, and the millions
in interest received by American financiers from foreign debtors. If
the writer does nothing more than this, he will be merely giving in-
struction in facts.
But suppose he goes on to interpret his facts. He balances ac-
counts; he shows how apparent assets are actual liabilities; he ex-
plains that even nations which profited most by the war during the
1920's went almost bankrupt in the 1930's. His logical and impersonal
conclusion, then, may be that the war was unprofitable to all con-
cerned.
And now suppose he goes on to argue from the evidence he has
educed and interpreted that all wars are not only murderous, but
ruinous. He condemns wars from both the humane and the economic
standpoints, and he tries to persuade his readers not to listen to
vendors of war. In doing this, he is giving instruction in a certain
intellectual and emotional point of view; he is not merely giving
The Nature of Exposition 167
facts and trying to interpret them impartially. He is trying to in-
fluence opinion and inspire action. Mere facts and their clarification
no longer satisfy him. He has become an agitator in the literal sense
of the word an individual attempting to stimulate others by in-
structing them in his own point of view.
4. THE REQUIREMENTS OF EXPOSITION. Though instruction and not
pleasure is the immediate purpose of exposition, a writer should not
feel altogether relieved of the responsibility of trying to be interest-
ing. Of course, some essays in exposition need no virtues except
clarity and conciseness. On the other hand, all expositions are not
mathematics textbooks, building specifications, and scientific articles
on the chemistry of insect blood. Some expositions are book reviews,
art criticisms, biography, histories cf literature, articles on current
social problems, philosophical or moral ecsays, sermons, public lec-
tures, accounts of true adventure, essays on natural history, and char-
acter sketches. These expositions require some other virtues besides
clarity and conciseness: they require to be interesting.
a. Macaulay censures the historian whose only object is to as-
semble facts: "While our historians are practicing all the arts of
controversy, they miserably neglect the art of narration, the art of
interesting the affections and presenting pictures to the imagination/*
This art of interesting need not be hostile to truth ( as Macaulay goes
on to show). Furthermore, history which has made use of this art
will be read and will exercise influence while quite as scholarly, but
less interesting, books will be neglected.
That a writer may produce these effects [Macaulay continues] without
violating truth is sufficiently proved by many excellent biographical
works. The immense popularity which well-written books of this kind
have acquired deserves the serious consideration of historians. Voltaire's
Charles the Twelfth, Marmontel's Memoirs, Boswell's Life of Johnson,
Southey's account of Nelson, are perused with delight by the most frivo-
lous and indolent. Whenever any tolerable book of the same description
makes its appearance, the circulating libraries are mobbed; the book
societies are in commotion; the new novel lies uncut; the magazines and
newspapers fill their columns with extracts. In the meantime, histories of
great empires, written by men of eminent ability, lie unread on the shelves
of ostentatious libraries.
168 Creative Writing
Macaulay's own devices for achieving interest in this very essay
are worth study. In the paragraph just quoted, he assumes the ag-
gressive, controversial tone which is so much more effective than
mere abstract statement; he gives examples of the sort of history
which he approves; he uses a set of hammering parallel structures;
he states the popularity of well-written biographies in terms of vivid
images; and he concludes with a powerful contrast.
In succeeding paragraphs he uses paradoxes: "A history in which
every particular incident may be true may on the whole be false."
Blunt, hard statements : "No past event has any intrinsic importance."
Rhetorical questions: If Lord Clarendon had done so-and-so, "Would
not his work in that case have been more interesting? Would it not
have been more accurate?" Singles: The merely factual historian is
like a "gnat mounted on an elephant, and laying down theories as to
the whole internal structure of the vast animal, from the phenomena
of the hide." Metaphors: "The upper current of society presents no
certain criterion by which we can judge of the direction in which
the under current flows." Analogies: "The effect of historical reading
is, in rnary respects, analogous to that produced by foreign travel"
and then an elaboration of the analogy through several hundred
words. References to or indirect quotations from other authors:
Bishop Watson, Sir Walter Scott, Hume, Tacitus, Lord Clarendon.
And throughout the essay full lists of specific details are presented
to support every large generalization.
All these devices, together with those mentioned in the first chap-
ter of this book, the student may well employ to make his own work
interesting. Occasionally these devices come naturally; but more
frequently they hide away and must be sought out by conscious ef-
fort. Being interesting without effort is a gift of few people.
b. Being interesting is a requirement of all but the most coldly
scientific sorts of exposition. But being clear is a requirement of all
exposition. Exposition that is not clear is like a clergyman without
morals or a teacher without learning. Endeavoring to clarify, it lacks
clarity; and pretending to instruct, it confuses. Poetry may be ob-
scure, description may be incomplete or only suggestive, and narra-
tive may be the record of happenings the reader does not under-
The Nature of Exposition 169
stand. But exposition can afford to leave no dark corners in the
reader's mind, or to trouble the reader with no unexplained ideas and
half-suggested facts. Exposition must be lucid, logical, complete;
it must leave the reader with more knowledge, greater understand-
ing, or new ways of looking at an issue. It must be so constructed
that it has a clear meaning as a whole, and that each part of it has
a clear meaning in relation to the whole and in relation to every other
part. Lacking in either this general or this specific clarity, the exposi-
tion is, in some measure at least, a failure.
5. THE SOURCES OF EXPOSITION. To attain clarity in his exposition,
a writer must have, first of all, knowledge about his subject. Like
Frank Buck or any other world-traveler or adventurer, he may have
gained his knowledge from personal experience; like Maeterlinck or
Fabre, he may have gained it from long and careful observation;
like Boswell or Trelawney, he may have gained it from associating
with others; like Kittredge and Lowes, he may have gained it from
reading; like Plato and Locke, he may have gained it from pure
thought operating on rather obvious phenomena; or like Darwin,
William James, and Spengler, he may have gained it from several
of these processes working together.
a. Most young students are inclined to distrust their own experi-
ences as possible sources of subject matter. Asked to write an exposi-
tion, a college youth who has worked during three vacations in a
small factory which manufactures fishing tackle will invariably pro-
pose to write about "Buddhism in China"; and a college girl who
works in a local library will believe that she must write about "The
Case against the Sugar Tariff." The youth will not realize that he can
be more original and interesting, and can convey more valuable in-
formation about the manufacture of fishing tackle than any other
subject he might choose; and the girl will not believe that her inside
knowledge of the way her library functions will be more interesting
and valuable to readers than anything she could find out about tar-
iffs. No intelligent person has reached the age of eighteen without
having acquired some special knowledge about something. The gid-
diest flirt could write entrancingly on "How to Attract Men"; the
slowest farm boy could write informatively on "How to Care for
170 Creative Writing
Milk Cows"; the most hurried New Yorker could write interestingly
about "Subways as a Passenger Knows Them"; and the most child-
like freshman could write a revolutionary exposition on "What I
Think of My Parents." One of the very first lessons a writer should
learn, therefore, is this: Value personal experience.
b. Careful observation and accurate recording of details observed
makes worth-while exposition. The play of a child, the motions of a
pole-vaulter, the behavior of a robin looking for worms, the typog-
raphy of a book, the structure of a blossom simple things such as
these, if observed closely, can be the subjects of endless, and yet
extraordinarily interesting exposition. All of us have seen cats beg-
ging for attention by rubbing about people's legs; but how many of
us have observed this common occurrence with the minute attention
that Darwin shows in the following paragraph?
Let us now look at a cat in a directly opposite frame of mind, whilst
feeling affectionate and caressing her master. . . . She now stands up-
right with her back slightly arched, which makes the hair appear rather
rough, but it does not bristle; her tail, instead of being extended and
lashed from side to side, is held quite stiff and perpendicularly upwards;
her ears are erect and pointed; her mouth is closed; and she rubs against
her master with a purr instead of a growl.
In another place Darwin describes the act of weeping:
The corrugators of the brow (corrugators supercilii) seem to be the
first muscles to contract; and these draw the eyebrows downwards and
inwards towards the base of the nose, causing vertical furrows, that is a
frown, to appear between the eyebrows; at the same time they cause the
disappearance of the transverse wrinkles across the forehead. The orbicu-
lar muscles contract almost simultaneously with the corrugators, and
produce wrinkles all round the eyes. . . . Lastly, the pyramidal muscles
of the nose contract; and these draw the eyebrows and the skin of the
forehead still lower down, producing short transverse wrinkles across the
base of the nose. . . . When these muscles are strongly contracted, those
running to the upper lip likewise contract and raise the upper lip. . . .
The raising of the upper lip draws upwards the flesh of the upper parts
of the cheeks, and produces a strongly marked fold on each cheek the
naso-labial fold, which runs from near the wings of the nostrils to the
corners of the mouth and below them. ... As the rpper lip is much
drawn up during the act of screaming, in the manner just explained, the
The Nature of Exposition 171
depressor muscles of the angles of the mouth are strongly contracted in
order to keep the mouth widely open, so that a full volume of sound may
be poured forth. The action of these opposing muscles, above and below,
tends to give to the mouth an oblong, almost squarish outline. ... An
excellent observer, in describing a baby crying whilst being fed, says, "it
made its mouth like a square, and let the porridge run out at all four
corners/'
These passages describe what all of us could see if we would only
observe; yet despite their commonplaceness of subject, they are
both interesting and informative.
c. Contemplation of one's associates may furnish material for half-
a-dozen kinds of exposition. The simple character sketch may grow
out of long observation of a roommate, a professor, a janitor, a class-
mate, or any other individual of no greater importance. Indeed, it
frequently happens that the most fascinating subjects for character
sketches are those unobtrusive mouse-like people who so often are
the bodily framework for a maze of tangled "complexes" and psy-
choses.
The religious youth who is troubled by scientific theories he has
learned in college; the student leader who seeks popularity at the
cost of independence; the pretty freshman girl who is in a flutter of
amazed delight because the campus hero likes her; the girl who as-
sumes the airs of a countess, though we know she does housework
to pay her way through college; the handsome elderly lady on the
faculty who has never married; the awkward, gesticulating, timid
young professor in the foreign language department such people
are interesting in themselves. A mere presentation of them as they
reveal their personalities to their associates would make valuable
exposition.
Even more valuable would be exposition attempting to show how
heredity, early environment, education, certain crucial experiences,
and certain significant people have worked together to fashion a
character into the individual we know.
Yet the exposition derived from one's associations may concern
no one individual. Instead, it may attempt to give the reader an un-
derstanding of some racial or social group with which the author is
17% Creative Writing
familiar. What are the racial-cultural traits of the German, the Jew,
the American Negro, the Japanese, the Southerner, or the New Eng-
lander? What are the ideas and the thought-channels of the common
sailor, the American banker, the middle-western farmer, the college
student, the adolescent boy, or the high school girl? A well-con-
sidered exposition attempting to answer any of these questions
would be both interesting and valuable.
The sort of exposition derived from personal associations may
take a wider field than even a racial or a social group. It may develop
a generalization which the student has constructed out of his knowl-
edge of all humanity a generalization which approaches a philoso-
phy of life. "Most men are fundamentally honest"; "Young people
are usually sad"; "The way to a woman's heart is to make her laugh";
"Women are always dissatisfied" these are typical generalizations
which may result from observation of people.
d. Reading is an ever fruitful source of material. Term themes in
courses of history, literature, economics, and philosophy are usually
typical expositions derived from the writer's acquaintance with other
authors. The aim of such expositions is primarily to give information
to people who have not the time or the opportunity to investigate as
thoroughly as the writer can. Accordingly, fullness of information
within certain specified limits, and clarity of expression are the chief
things to be desired in this sort of exposition.
At the same time, the writer should remember that mere sum-
maries or paraphrases, though these have a place in exposition, are
seldom adequate in themselves for the proper explication of sources.
Selection, from sometimes numerous possibilities, of sources to sum-
marize or paraphrase, decisions as to which sources deserve the
fullest treatment and the greatest amount of space, weighing of au-
thorities, judgments on seemingly contradictory or conflicting
sources, organization and arrangement of material all this requires
initiative and originality on the writer's part. He cannot be a mere
parrot; he must practically always contribute something of himself.
His exposition, consequently, though composed of materials taken
from other writers and though often designed to give purely objec-
The Nature of Exposition 173
tive knowledge, will almost inevitably reflect the individual author's
own personality. It will cover old materials; yet in its standards, its
interpretations, its objective, and its purpose it will be, and it ought
to be, a new contribution to recorded knowledge. 1
e. Some of the very best and most useful exposition ever written
has come from original thought about well-known facts. Most of the
philosophers, from Plato to Bergson, have built intricate and fasci-
nating intellectual systems on the basis of information common to all
educated men. Burke impressed upon two or three generations his
theories about beauty, though he had less experience with beauty
than thousands of people who have walked through the corridors of
the Metropolitan Museum a couple of times; Rousseau wrote a clas-
sic in the literature of education, though he had less concrete in-
formation about his subject than any college senior who expects to
become a teacher; and Jefferson has influenced the destiny of a na-
tion for a century and a half, though he probably knew less about
history than any half-a-dozen college professors you know. These
men were great because they thought because they could draw in-
ferences, judge conditions, and construct general laws from com-
monplace facts of no consequence to people less thoughtful.
Too much reading and too little thinking often suffocates the crea-
tive principle. Most good writers have been wide readers; but read-
ing is no substitute for thought. A little knowledge well used is far
more valuable than much knowledge never put to work. Schopen-
hauer, in his volume called Chips and Scraps, has an energetic essay
on this very subject. He deserves to be quoted at some length:
Much reading deprives the mind of all elasticity; it is like keeping a
spring continually under pressure. The safest way of having no thoughts
of one's own is to take up a book every moment one has nothing else to
do. It is this practice which explains why erudition makes most men more
1 The collecting of data on bibliographic cards, the use of footnotes and
bibliography, the conventional symbols and abbreviations employed in footnotes
and bibliography, and the most acceptable form and arrangement for footnotes
and bibliography these are matters of importance. Most of the handbooks and
rhetorics used nowadays in freshman English courses contain information about
such things. Consequently, they will not be studied in the present work. The
student is referred to his freshman handbook instead.
17 '4 Creative Writing
stupid and silly than they are by nature, and prevents their writings ob-
taining any measure of success. They remain, in Pope's words:
Forever reading, never to be read! . . .
Reading is nothing more than a substitute for thought of one's own. It
means putting the mind into leading strings. The multitude of books
serves only to show how many false paths there are, and how widely
astray a man may wander if he follows any of them. But he who is guided
by his genius, he who thinks for himself, who thinks spontaneously and
accurately, possesses the only compass by which he can steer aright. A
man should read only when his own thoughts stagnate at their source,
which will happen often enough even with the best of minds. On the
other hand, to take up a book for the purpose of scaring away one's own
original thoughts is a sin against the Holy Spirit. It is like running away
from nature to look at a museum of dried plants or gaze at a landscape
in copper-plate.
f. The final source of exposition that is, a compound of all the
sources previously mentioned doubtless produces more influential
work than any of the others. We ask a writer not only to think, but
to know what has already been written on his subject, and to have
special knowledge gained from experiment or observation, from
personal associations, or from personal experience. In a word, we
ask him to have both a wide knowledge and a special knowledge of
his subject, and in addition we like* to see him organize his knowl-
edge into a coherent system having a place in the larger system of
things. If, for example, someone writes about coal strikes in America
during the last fifteen years, we expect him to have read much on
the subject, observed much, and (if possible) experienced much
and known people connected with the strikes. Furthermore, we ex-
pect him to have thought about the strikes long enough to show us
how they have fitted into the general social and economic scheme
during the last fifteen years, and how they have influenced the pres-
ent and may influence the future. We want learning in our writer,
special knowledge, and a power to theorize. If he has only the first,
he is a pedant; if he has only the second, he is a technical expert;
and if he has only the last, he is likely to be a windbag.
The Nature of Exposition 175
An hour or two spent reading the articles in any of the better-class
general periodicals will show how true it is that our best-known
contemporary writers derive their materials from all the sources
indicated. The learning may be neither esoteric nor all-inclusive; the
special knowledge may be accidental; and the power to theorize
may be limited. But if the three of them are used for all they are
worth if they are forced to yield up every droplet of expository
attar they contain, they may be brewed into a really valuable piece
of writing.
How good an essay may be constructed from fairly commonplace
material many a good author demonstrates every month in the bet-
ter-class magazines mentioned above. Analysis of an example will
clarify this statement. In an excellent article called "The Humble
Female," which appeared in Harpers some time ago, Agnes Rogers
employs only the following information or theories:
General Information:
Women were "emancipated" during the early twentieth century.
Yet few women occupy high positions in business or in politics.
The typical modern woman works a while before she marries; then
she marries and has a small family; then she has to find some other
occupation when she is in her forties; she never becomes an invaluable
grandmother, as in previous ages.
Special Information:
Example of a woman banker who was more efficient than a man.
A woman became Treasurer of the United States.
Example of a woman who avoided jobs where she had to make
decisions.
The writer has found, in talking with many college girls, that most
young women lack self-confidence.
Mrs. Roosevelt and Senator Margaret Smith did well in public life.
Two examples of modern men having "glamour-beyond-fifty."
Thirty percent of the nation's labor force are women.
All but nine of the census report's 451 job classifications are open to
women. Even the Harvard Medical School finally opened its doors to
women.
Quotations or paraphrases from three previous writers.
Theories:
Women do not value themselves enough because
a. They, like the modern man, want security.
176 Creative Writing
b. Labor-saving devices deprive them of the dignity of being house-
wives on a professional scale.
c. They have heard and read so much about the obligations of the
modern woman that they are bewildered.
d. They want to be liked by men.
The way to make women less humble is for
a. Women to think of themselves as people, not women.
h. Women not to consider that all is lost when youth is gone.
c. Women not to think that marriage automatically ensures an idyl-
lic existence.
d. Men not to be jealous of successful business or professional
women who happen to be their wives.
The average observant person knows all the general information
used here; he could substitute personal information of his own quite
as pointed as some of that listed as "Special Information," and he
could discover other statistical or quotable items as useful as these
by an hour's research among the periodical indexes and files of old
magazines and newspapers; and he could think up theories quite as
valid as those outlined here. In short, though general information,
special information, and private theories have gone into this article,
none of the three is so profound or so esoteric as to discourage
emulation. Almost any thoughtful and practiced writer could pro-
duce an equally good article.
EXERCISES
1. Definition.
a. Write paragraphs describing three of the following in an ex-
pository style; then write other paragraphs describing the same three
in a non-expository style:
Some bird or some dog.
The house you live in.
A restaurant you know.
A friend.
A classroom.
A piece of furniture.
A view of the campus.
b. Select three brief news items from the daily paper, and retell
them in a non-expository style.
The Nature of Exposition 177
2. The Field of Exposition.
3. The Uses of Exposition.
Explain briefly how you could write three different expositions
having three different uses about each of the following subjects:
The manners of college students.
Football and college finance.
The last ten movies I have seen.
Conservation measures enacted recently by the federal ad-
ministration.
Bird life on the campus.
Getting a book from the library.
The freshman's problems of adjustment.
The pre-medical (pre-law) course in college.
The English courses at this college.
Tuition and fees at this college.
4. The Requirements of Exposition.
a. Take some unsatisfactory exposition you have written, or let
your instructor give you some poor expository theme one of his fresh-
men has written, or select a particularly uninteresting page in a history
or philosophy textbook and convert it into interesting exposition by
using the devices mentioned in the foregoing discussion. Do not
change the fundamental ideas expressed in the original work.
b. In planning an exposition on "The Political Situation in My
Home Town," suppose you think of the ideas mentioned below. Show
how each of these in turn might be made the unifying idea of ten
different expositions, and show how all the other ideas could be re-
lated to this central one:
1. The town is small.
2. The leading political faction is a group of merchants on
X Street.
3. There is a demagogic political boss.
4. The liquor (or gambling) vote is influential.
5. Municipal funds have been used to help the trade of the
leading faction.
6. The best-paved and best-lighted street is X Street.
7. The mayor of the town is a tool of the boss and of the
leading faction.
8. There is some jealousy between the boss and the leading
faction.
9. There has been corruption in the granting of contracts, in
178 Creative Writing
the appointment of officials, and in the administration of the
law.
10. The reform element is divided into two groups, one of
which wants merely a transfer of power to itself, while the other
wants actual reform.
5. The Sources of Exposition.
a. Make a list of the experiences which have given you consider-
able knowledge about certain subjects. If you wish, or if your in-
structor suggests it, write an exposition on one of these subjects.
b. Write a paragraph or so describing in detail the appearance and
the movements of three of the following:
Your father driving a car.
A professor giving a lecture.
Your dog greeting you when you return home.
A fish moving about an aquarium for a few minutes.
A baby just learning to walk.
A baby amusing itself playing on the floor.
Your mother as she makes a bed.
A friend eating a sandwich; eating ice cream; drinking; play-
ing bridge.
An insect on a plant.
A sparrow struggling with a large tangle of straw.
c. Make a list of expository subjects that could be derived from
your knowledge of people. Try to include subjects of each type men-
tioned in Section 5, Part c, of the text. Write expositions on any of
these subjects that your instructor thinks promising.
(d. The individual interests or the special tasks of every student
must determine the kind of exposition the student may create from
reading other writers.)
e. Write a thoughtful and interesting exposition in which you try
to answer one of the following questions:
What is sentimentality?
What is art?
What is tragedy?
What is the difference between a radical and a liberal?
What is a proper attitude toward sex?
When is a man (or a woman) educated?
Of what value are novels?
Of what value is poetry?
What should be the chief ideal of every nation?
How should we let tradition affect us?
The Nature of Exposition 179
f . Write an exposition on one of the following topics; include
general information, personal information, and individual theories:
Changes in American political philosophy since 1950.
A recent episode of international misunderstanding.
Modern comedy.
College humor.
Victorianism in your college.
The drift of modern high school education.
How your college differs from another in the state.
Your own moral standards and those of your mother (or
father).
American poetry since 1945.
CHAPTER IX
The Types of Exposition
The previous chapter discussed the nature of exposition. The pres-
ent chapter describes some specific types of exposition. All the more
important types are considered except argumentation, for which an
entire chapter is reserved later in the book.
I. The Familiar Essay
Calling the familiar essay exposition is almost an insult. But be-
cause it states ideas instead of creating images or relating actions, it
is close kin to exposition.
The familiar essay states ideas; but these ideas are frequently
trivial and always personal. They convey little objective instruction,
and they constitute no philosophic systems. Usually, indeed, the
ideas in a familiar essay are not expounded in sober earnestness and
must not be taken too seriously. Consequently, the familiar essay is a
form of writing so fluid and imponderable as almost to defy analysis.
Moreover, advice about how to write it is futile. An hour with
Charles Lamb, Stephen Leacock, Max Beerbohrn, or Christopher
Morley will teach anyone more about the familiar essay than will a
month with a textbook composition.
In style this kind of essay is familiar, but not commonplace or
vulgar; in structure it is formless, but not incoherent or chaotic; in
method it may be illogical, but it is never clumsy or stupid. The
familiar essayist writes about anything nylon stockings, German
kings, or life in Alaska; but he is seldom in earnest about any of
them. He is well bred, chatty, gossipy; sympathetic, but often satiri-
cal; good-humored, but sometimes cynical; he is never solemn. He
is genuinely interested in everything, but he takes nothing seriously
himself least of all. He may write about serious subjects, but he
180
The Types of Exposition 181
will write in a whimsical style. Or he may write about trivial sub-
jects, but he will write in a mock-serious style. He is informal and
paradoxical irresponsible and amused urbane and playful-
shrewd and irrepressible. And yet all the while he may be filled
with quiet emotion and tender sentiment. He is the intelligent and
cultured man off parade. He laughs good-naturedly at the world
and at himself, and asks only that the world laugh with him. If,
sometimes, a tear lurks behind the laugh, it is a hidden tear which
finds no expression save in a little sigh.
In Edinburgh in 1863 Alexander Smith wrote about the familiar
essayist in a style which may well be a model for the style of all
familiar essays:
The essayist plays with his subject, now in whimsical, now in grave,
now in melancholy mood. He lies upon the idle grassy bank, like Jacques,
letting the world flow past him, and from this thing and the other he ex-
tracts his mirth and his moralities. His main gift is an eye to discover the
suggestiveness of common things; to find a sermon in the most unpromis-
ing texts. Beyond the vital hint, the first step, his discourses are not be-
holden to their titles. Let him take up the most trivial subject, and it will
lead him away to the great questions over which the serious imagination
loves to brood fortune, mutability, death just as inevitably as the run-
nel, trickling among the summer hills, on which the sheep are bleating,
leads you to the sea; or as, turning down the first street you come to in
the city, you are led finally, albeit by many an intricacy, out into the open
country, with its waste places and its woods, where you are lost in a sense
of strangeness and solitariness. The world is to the meditative man what
the mulberry plant is to the silkworm. The essay- writer has no lack of
subject-matter. He has the day that is passing over his head; and, if un-
satisfied with that, he has the world's six thousand years to depasture his
gay or serious humour upon. I idle away my time here, and I am finding
new subjects every hour. Everything I see or hear is an essay in bud. The
world is everywhere whispering essays, and one need only be the world's
amanuensis. The proverbial expression which last evening the clown
dropped as he trudged homeward to supper, the light of the setting sun
on his face, expands before me to a dozen pages. The coffin of the pauper,
which today I saw carried carelessly along, is as good a subject as the
funeral procession of an emperor. . . . Two rustic lovers, whispering be-
tween the darkening hedges, are as potent to project my mind into the
tender passion as if I had seen Romeo touch the cheek of Juliet in the
moonlight garden. Seeing a curly-headed child asleep in the sunshine
Creative Writing
before a cottage-door is sufficient excuse for a discourse on childhood;
quite as good as if I had seen infant Cain asleep in the lap of Eve with
Adam looking on. A lark cannot rise to heaven without raising as many
thoughts as there are notes in its song. Dawn cannot pour its white light
on my village without starting from their dim lair a hundred reminis-
cences; nor can sunset burn above yonder trees in the west without at-
tracting to itself the melancholy of a lifetime.
II. Exposition of Events
1. Diaries and Journals are much the same thing. Strictly speak-
ing, however, a diary is entirely personal; it records matters that
center about the writer. A journal, on the other hand, need not be
altogether personal; it may be chiefly concerned with external mat-
ters, like the daily progress of a ship, the regular meetings of a
legislative body, the adventures and discoveries of an expedition,
the course of a scientific investigation, and so on.
The basic requirements of a journal are few. They are merely
honesty, completeness, and clarity. But, of course, there is no law
against a journal's having a pleasing style, good narrative structure,
interesting character delineation, vivid description, shrewd criti-
cism, and original comment.
A good diary is nearly related to the familiar essay. It is not a
mere listing of a day's events: "Had lunch at Margaret's house to-
day. Went to see a movie afterward Roland Rogers in Their Only
Hour. Got home at about 5 P.M. just in time to receive a telephone
call from Jack. Made a date with him for the Saturday night dance.
Called Alice after dinner and talked about Jack. Studied French till
11:15." Such a diary is of no interest to anyone but the writer, and
will not interest even the writer after six months. A good diary re-
veals one's emotional and intellectual reactions to daily affairs; it
describes scenes and recalls images; it sketches and analyzes char-
acters; it tells little stories or anecdotes; it voices criticisms of books,
plays, ideas, and people; it records the writer's current philosophical
and religious opinions; it pictures social life; it reflects history.
Keeping a diary is good practice for the writer. It will get him
into the habit of writing something every day; it will train him to
perceive worth-while material in common life; it will make him
The Types of Exposition 183
observe his surroundings more carefully, and value his own passing
thoughts and feelings more highly; it will give him a kind of rough
quarry from which he can mine material for more polished work
later on; and, in after years, it will be peculiarly fascinating to
himself and to his grandchildren. People still read with delight the
diaries of Pepys and Boswcll, and with intense interest the diaries of
Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells. It is a form of writing that never
is outdated.
2. History is narrative exposition; its chief purpose is to instruct;
its chief requirements are thoroughness, accuracy, and clarity.
a. History of an event deals with one episode like a traffic ac-
cident, a great explosion, an assassination, a single battle, a single
day or a minor action within a battle, and so on.
b. History of a period deals with many episodes happening over
a certain length of time like the 1930's, the Victorian Age, the
Renaissance, and so on. Since recording every detail about such
periods is physically impossible, the historian must select details.
His selection depends upon what he considers important. Thus all
such history is actually interpretative. Good historians keep this fact
in mind, or actually emphasize it; they do not merely list indis-
criminate past events without regard for their significance in a gen-
eral interpretation of history.
c. Topical history deals with special historical subjects that may
cut across several chronological periods, and are purposely isolated
from other subjects. Examples would be histories of the honor sys-
tem at your college, wedding customs, Unitarianism, the British
labor movement, the British Parliament, the woman suffrage move-
ment in America, Franklin Roosevelt's administrations, the Second
World War, and the like.
d. What we may call folk history is altogether different. Its pur-
pose is not to give readers a clearer understanding of large events
but, rather, to show readers how our ancestors lived, thought,
worked, and died; to reveal potentialities of human nature that we
moderns could never have dreamed of; to satisfy a normal human
curiosity about other human beings who were once alive. Such his-
tory need be only true and interesting. Without attempting inter-
184 Creative Writing
pretation and evaluation, it may recount stirring events, or depict
fascinating characters, or tell of curious or unusual customs or in-
cidents. The more vividly all this is done, the better is the history.
Factual truth alone may not always suffice. Imagination, under-
standing of human nature, story-telling power, an eye for effect, and
a keen sensitivity to the strange or romantic these the writer needs
in addition to strict historical accuracy. Acquiring them is largely
a matter of wide and tolerant reading. And what reading cannot
supply, nature must.
3. Biography may be of either the institutional or the folk type.
That is, it may tell the story of a man's life as it affected his times
and the times which came after him; or it may tell the story of his
life for its own sake for the intrinsic interest of himself and of the
things he did. Older biographies were, most commonly, of the
former sort; but modern biographies, yielding to the contemporary
interest in psychology ( and, perhaps, making concessions to modern
sensationalism), have drifted toward the personal. This new desire
to understand historical personages as people, men and women
undergoing altogether human emotions and having altogether hu-
man weaknesses, is certainly praiseworthy. It has revitalized biog-
raphy and brought about a new conception of history; moreover, it
lias raised the craft of biography into an art demanding the creative
imagination of a novelist as well as the accuracy of the historian.
As long as it retains this accuracy, the new art deserves all the
popularity it has attained. Nevertheless, personal fancy, elaborate
reconstructions of possible conversations, and bold imaging forth
of personally invented scenes have no place in sound biography.
These belong to fiction, not to exposition.
No biography should be a mere running comment on events
chronologically arranged. Instead, it should have a definite objec-
tive, a unifying idea, around which all the events arrange them-
selves according to a pattern. The pattern is the biographer's own
contribution to the work. To one biographer, Napoleon was a selfish,
cold-blooded egoist; to another, he was a dreamer who visioned for
himself an Asiatic empire of which Europe was to be only a prov-
ince; and to another, he was an unhappy man who found in activity
The Types of Exposition 185
a compensation for youthful frustration and disappointed love.
Each biographer uses the same facts; but because each has used a
different pattern, each has created a different Napoleon.
Before setting pen to paper in writing a biography, the student
should acquire by reading or by personal investigation as much in-
formation as possible about his subject. After this, the next step
should be assimilation and meditation. For a time, the prospective
writer should leave off research and devote himself to the task of
expressing in words the dominant trait of his subject's character
and the main pattern of his life. When this step has been taken, and
not until then, comes the writing of the biography. This third step
is now comparatively easy. All that the writer need do is to select
from his previously gathered information facts and anecdotes which
illustrate or prove the fundamental idea, and then present them in
a more or less chronological order. A little additional investigation
may be necessary, or a little explanation of seemingly contradictory
facts; but the real work of writing a biography is done when the
second step mentioned above is taken.
4. Anecdote is one of the chief instruments of biography. It may
be a short account of some small incident, or it may be a bit of in-
formation about someone's personal habits. For example, the story
of how Coleridge lectured an hour and a half on a subject he did
not know until the man who introduced him announced the subject
to the audience this is an anecdote of a particular incident. And
the information that Dr. Johnson used to touch every post as he
walked down the street this is an anecdote of personal habit.
But both sorts of anecdotes serve one purpose: They reveal char-
acter. They tell us something ( not always to be expressed in words )
about personalities; and they tell it more forcefully and memorably
than could any amount of abstract analysis. Everyone who has read
Macaulay or Boswell can recall a dozen anecdotes about Dr. John-
son; but who can recall many actual facts about him? When was he
born; where was he born; when did he leave Oxford; when did he
come to London; when did he die?
Not all anecdotes, however, are personal. Some reveal the charac-
teristics of races, classes, or professions. The stories about the two
186 Creative Writing
Irishmen, about the Scotsman, about the traveling salesman, about
the absent-minded professor are all anecdotes intended to depict
the typical traits of certain groups. The scope of the anecdote may
be even wider. It may reveal traits typical of a people, of an age in
history, of human beings in general or of dogs, or of parrots, or of
ants. The anecdote about the medieval French bishop who tried in
ecclesiastical court and burned for sorcery a rooster which had laid
an egg reveals to us more about the medieval mind than could
columns of statistics. And the stories telling how feminine mourners
( some with onions in their handkerchiefs ) filed past the bier of the
dead actor Rudolph Valentino reveal to us as much about human
sentimentality as does a tabloid.
The requirements of a good anecdote are these: that it reveal
some characteristic of individuals, groups, or species; that it be
short; and that, if possible, the incident told be curious, humorous,
or emotional.
5. The True-Experience Narrative is expository when its chief
purpose is to give information. Yet this kind of narrative nearly al-
ways has the other purposes of exciting the reader's emotions and of
pleasing by means of a skillful plot. Parkman's The Oregon Trail,
Theodore Roosevelt's book on his African adventure, Tomlinson's
The Sea and the Jungle, magazine accounts of explorations, hunting
caribou in Alaska, catching trout in Colorado these are narratives
of true experience.
The first requisite for such narratives is that they be convincing.
For no matter how interesting or exciting they are, they defeat their
primary purpose if they do not sound true. To help him achieve
this convincingness, a writer may use some of the following devices:
He will write in a direct, simple style instead of in a studied or
elaborate style.
He will shun almost every temptation to be impressive by means
of intensifying words or emotional details.
He will avoid trying to create artificial effects in climax, suspense,
description, and alleged humor.
He will be wary of making statements hard to be believed; and
when he does make them, he will explain them carefully.
The Types of Exposition 187
If he is writing in the first person, he will minimize his own ex-
ploits and praise those of his companions.
He will give many specific (even though unnecessary) details
about the weather, the route followed, the equipment taken, and so
forth.
In addition to making his work convincing, the writer of true-
experience narrative must make it interesting. His chief source of
interest will be, of course, the inherent interest of his subject matter.
Yet a few other sources of interest are worth mentioning.
Careful accounts of the emotional reactions of people under un-
usual strains are interesting. So are details of ingenious ways by
which individuals circumvent difficulties; so are descriptions of un-
familiar ways of living or thinking among certain peoples; so are
characterizations and descriptions of typical people. Judicious, non-
spectacular use of suspense (see the last chapter of this book) will
heighten the interest of a narrative. And organizing the narrative
around a central figure will contribute a human interest to what
might otherwise be too impersonal. This central figure need not be
the most important person in the story, but some relatively insignifi-
cant individual such as the cook, the guide, a villainous native, or
even a dog. Returning again and again to detail the actions and re-
actions of this individual creates a certain artistic unity which many
narratives of true experience lack.
6. Closely related to the narrative of true experience is the Narra-
tive of Travel. The writer of this latter sort of narrative tells not
what has happened on one occasion ( as does the writer of the true-
experience narrative) but what exists permanently that is, what
other people would find if they went to the same places. Thus the
narrative of travel borders on the true-experience narrative at one
side, and on description or factual exposition at the other.
Articles in the National Geographic Magazine, the journals we
keep when we go to Europe, the letters we write home when we
are visiting in other places, the tales we tell when we come home
from a journey all these are travel narratives. They acquire interest
through the writer's use of much the same devices as those men-
tioned in the previous section. And they lose interest when they
188 Creative Writing
become a mere list of dates and geographic names, or a mere collec-
tion of statistical facts about mileage, the height of buildings, the
names of monuments seen, and the manufacturing resources of
places visited.
The first rule for the travel writer is that he make his reader see.
The reader must see landscapes, buildings, streets, crowds. But most
especially, he must see people their national physiognomy, their
costume, their gestures, their daily familiar habits of life.
Not only must the reader see people; he must know about them
as well. He must know their religions and superstitions, their cus-
toms and education, their hopes and desires. In a word, he must
know how their thinking differs from his, how their understanding
of the world differs from his, how their ways of getting a living dif-
fer from his, and how their attitude and actions toward other people
differ from his.
And finally, giving the history of places visited makes travel
narrative interesting. The most unspectacular hillside in Pennsyl-
vania becomes an object of reverent emotion if it so happens that
the Battle of Gettysburg was fought there; and the most common-
place rock on the Massachusetts coast becomes an object of venera-
tion if it so happens that the Pilgrim Fathers first landed on it.
7. One final type of expository narrative we may discuss very
briefly. It is the News Story. Entire books have been written about
this kind of narrative, but we must dismiss it briefly here. Different
times, different places, and different editorial policies determine the
length, the elaboration, the style, and the mood of every story. But
once these forces have done their work, there remains a certain form
which the news story usually assumes.
The story gives the gist of the whole narrative in the first two or
three sentences of the first paragraph. These sentences are called
the lead. The next group of sentences ( usually three or four ) restates
the narrative in fuller detail. The next group ( even longer than the
second) amplifies the story still further. And still other groups con-
tinue the process still further.
The reasons for this structure of the news story are three: (a)
so that the reader who is in a hurry, or who is not especially inter-
The Types of Exposition 189
ested, can find out essentially what happened without having to
read more than the first two or three sentences of the story; (b)
so that the story can be logically cut off at almost any point if space
requirements demand its abbreviation; and (c) so that the work of
headline writers on the news staff may be facilitated.
III. Exposition of Fact
All narrative expositions are expositions of fact, but the reverse
of this statement is not true. Many expositions convey information
about things which do not change in time or place, and which, there-
fore, are not narratives. It is these non-narrative expositions of fact
which we shall study here.
1. Definition is both a method and a type of exposition. As a type
it is common and important. Indeed, it is actually the most impor-
tant of all forms. If we can only get readers to accept our definitions,
we can get them to believe and do almost anything. If we can get
them to accept our definition of right, say, we can get them to risk
their lives and do murder on bloody battlefields. More arguments,
disagreements, and misunderstandings in contemporary life result
from confused definitions than from any other type of thought; and
more philosophies, criticisms, creeds, and codes of action depend on
certain definitions than on any amount of sound reasoning. Were
the agricultural policies initiated by President Roosevelt in 1933
and 1934 communistic? Does the Republican party stand for pure
Americanism? When is a person immoral? Is a certain novel realis-
tic? Is it sentimental? On the way we define any of these terms
may depend results of large consequence.
2. Descriptive Exposition differs from imaginative description in
not attempting to give the reader a unified image, to make him see
the thing described. Imaginative description is synthetic: it builds
up an image in the reader's mind. Descriptive exposition is analytic:
it records the details which constitute the subject under inspection.
Moreover, descriptive exposition need not concern merely concrete
objects, but may involve abstract conditions. Indeed, descriptive ex-
position may be defined as writing which gives informative details
about any thing, fact, or condition which exists, has existed, or may
exist.
190 Creative Writing
a. Concrete expository description gives concrete details about
either specific things or typical things.
( 1 ) The description of specific things may be some such piece of
writing as a set of building specifications, notes on the identifying
marks of a certain criminal, an architect's description of the White
House, a social worker's description of living conditions in a mining
town, a surgeon's report on an autopsy, or any other collection of
concrete details about specific things.
(2) The description of a typical thing may be a naturalist's de-
scription of a new species of bird, an architect's description of the
Tudor manor-house, a psychologist's description of the mental traits
that distinguish the schizophrenic type, a doctor's description of the
symptoms which characterize a certain disease, or any other collec-
tion of concrete details about typical things.
b. Abstract expository description likewise gives information
about specific things or typical things.
( 1 ) The specific things described may be either concrete or ab-
stract; but the description itself deals with abstract traits of the sub-
ject. Thus it may be a character sketch of a certain individual ( not
a description of his physical appearance); or a set of statistics on
living conditions in a mining town (not a physical description of
those conditions). It may include descriptions of such things as
specific organizations (like the United States government), eco-
nomic surveys of agricultural conditions in Iowa, outlines of a pro-
posed policy or philosophy, and similar collections of abstract de-
tails about specific things.
(2) The typical things are described in abstract terms. A law
describes a type of case which shall be considered an infraction, or
describes typical actions that shall constitute legality. The abstract
description of typical things may have such titles as these: "The
Introvert," "The Criminal Mind," "The Music of the Future," "The
Spirit of American Poetry," and "Democracy in the Twentieth Cen-
tury" all of them indicating that the exposition so entitled is a
collection of abstract details about typical things.
c. Classification comes under the heading of expository descrip-
tion. But once a writer adopts the method of classification and
The Types of Exposition 191
divides his subject into its parts, he proceeds in one of the ways
noted above that is, with either concrete or abstract expository
description. Classification is discussed at some length in Section 3
of the next chapter.
3. Exposition of a Process is what we write when we give direc-
tions or tell how something acts or works. It is close kin to both
narrative and descriptive exposition. But it differs from the former
in concentrating on method rather than on actual events, and from
the latter in emphasizing the time element rather than static condi-
tions. Thus an exposition on "How Dr. M. Performed a Cerebral
Operation" will be a narrative; yet the chief interest will be in the
methods Dr. M. employed. At the same time, the exposition will use
descriptive details; but the chief interest will not be in one phase of
the operation, but in all phases serially connected.
Expositions of a process usually have titles that begin with "How."
They may involve concrete processes like "How to Make Chicken
Dumplings"; or abstract processes like "How We Think." They may
involve future processes like "How the Next War Will Be Con-
ducted"; or past or present processes like "How the United Nations
Operates" or "How Penicillin Was Discovered." And they may in-
volve specific processes like "How Saipan Was Taken"; or typical
processes like "How Cotton is Ginned."
Sometimes a typical process is made specific by the writer's choos-
ing a single individual of the type, and following this individual
through the entire process. For example, the last title given above
could be made specific in some such way as this: "What Happens
to a Boll of Cotton."
IV. Exposition of Opinion
Opinions may be about general laws of life or nature, or about
specific things.
1. Expositions of Opinions about General Laws. These include
reflective or meditative essays such as Emerson's; philosophical spec-
ulations such as Locke's; discourses on abstract principles of human
nature and human life such as Montaigne's; and essays giving ad-
vice on the conduct of life such as Bacon's. Representative titles by
192 Creative Writing
the writers mentioned are "Self-Reliance," "Poetry," "On the Nature
of Human Understanding," "Friendship," "Love," and "Of Great
Place." Many of the cheap pocket magazines today, and many popu-
lar "peaee-of-mind" books contain expositions of this type; and mag-
azines of the better sort frequently contain articles expressing opin-
ions about general laws. Two or three old copies of Harpers
Magazine and the Atlantic Monthly contain these articles: "Less
Money and More Life," "The Tragic Fallacy," "Is America a Chris-
tian Country?" "The Creative Spirit and the Church," and "The
American Way." But most magazine articles belong to the next
group to be discussed.
.^. Expositions of Opinions About Specific Conditions, Facts, or
Things. a. Specific conditions often elicit an expression of opinion.
A lawyer has noted the cruelty and injustice of the "third degree"
as practiced in America, and, writing in Scribners, expresses his
opinion about the condition in an article called "The American
Inquisition." In the same magazine Howard Mumford Jones gives
his opinion about life in the South in an essay called "On Leaving
the South." Similar essays in other magazines are "Why Literature
Declines," "The Curse of Leisure," "Compulsory Chapel" ( all in the
Atlantic), "The Great God Football," "Our Passion for Lawmak-
ing," "Is Sleep a Vicious Habit?" and "Is Japan Going Democratic?"
(all in Harper's). These articles express their authors' opinions about
certain conditions.
b. Sometimes an author expresses an opinion about specific facts.
Scientific and scholarly articles are often of this sort. Some repre-
sentative titles will illustrate what the group is like: "The Origin of
the Longbow," "The Dating of Shenstone's Letters," "Thomas
Mann's Indebtedness to Scandinavia," "The Relation Between the
York and Townley Plays," and "Emerson's Theory and Practice of
Poetry."
Many of these articles present new facts, and all express opinions
about facts old and new. Their chief merit lies not in the interest-
ingness, originality, and wisdom of their ideas, but in the amount
and quality of evidence they can muster to support a certain opin-
The Types of Exposition 198
ion. Style, which counts for everything in the other expositions of
opinion, counts for nothing here. All that matters is clarity, factual
truth, and logical inference.
c. A not-quite-so-pedestrian sort of exposition giving opinions
about specific things is criticism. We may criticize the opinions or
criticize the works of other people. When we do the former, we use
as measuring sticks those methods of detecting fallacies which are
outlined in a succeeding chapter; when we do the latter, we use as
measuring sticks certain standards peculiar to the type of work
under inspection.
Other people's works may be classified into two sorts: artistic and
non-artistic. Since non-artistic work ( unless it be the pointless labor
of an idiot) is always done for some use or purpose, we must
criticize it according to the standards of its particular use or pur-
pose. Accordingly, we cannot very well generalize about such criti-
cism. Every use or purpose has its own standards, which often have
no relation to the standards of other uses or purposes as, for ex-
ample, the use or purpose of a hairbrush has no relation to the use
or purpose of a plow. We must confine our discussion, then, to the
criticism which deals with works of art.
Just what art is may itself be a subject for exposition of opinion;
and whether a certain piece of work is artistic or not may very well
be a question for criticism. But we usually understand by the term
art such things as sculpture, architecture, music, dancing, acting,
painting, costumery; and style, structure, and imagination in writ-
ing. Generalizing about such diverse things in a short space is no
easy task; but two or three generalizations we can make.
The first is that criticism should be appreciation in the literal
sense of that word; that is, criticism should be a process of weigh-
ing, estimating, and setting a value on a piece of work. It should tell
both the good and the bad; it should tell wherein the work succeeds
and wherein it fails in its efforts to be good art; it should give credit
where credit is due, and fix blame where blame is due. Criticism
should never be mere fault-finding, and never mere extolling. Noth-
ing is so bad that it has not in it some good, and nothing is so good
194 Creative Writing
that it has not in it some bad. It is the business of the critic to see
impartially both the good and the bad, and to remember that, in art,
a very little good may outweigh a great deal of bad.
The next generalization is that we must criticize the artist not on
the basis of what he has tried to do, but on the basis of his success
or lack of success in trying to do it. This means that we cannot justly
criticize a writer, say, for writing novels instead of short stories, for
being an essayist instead of a playwright, or for being a romanticist
instead of a realist. To be sure, we may, as individuals, praise or
deplore the writer's purpose; but as impartial critics, we have no
business doing so. If a writer wishes to write a detective story, we
must judge his work as a detective story, and not condemn it for
failing to be a serious novel. Or if a musician wishes to compose an
opera, we must judge his work as an opera, and not condemn it for
f ailing to be a popular song.
The final generalization is that criticism is never mere arbitrary
personal opinion. The fact that a critic likes or dislikes a piece of
art has no more to do with criticism than the fact that he likes or
dislikes strawberries. We may like to read the comic strips and
dislike to read Sir Walter Scott; but who would say that our like or
dislike here has anything to do with the artistic merit of the two
types of work? We know that Sir Walter Scott's novels are greater
than the comic strips. Criticism is based on certain standards. What
these standards are may be difficult to say; but, in general, they are
the characteristics possessed in common by works which have ap-
pealed to what are considered the best-qualified judges in many
places over a great length of time.
Let us say that Chaucer's writing has characteristics A, B, and C.
Shakespeare's has A, D, and E.
Congreve's has A, F, and G.
Fielding's has A, H, and I.
Smollett's has A, J, and K.
These writers have had the universal appeal just mentioned. They
have many traits which differentiate them from one another, and
yet all have one trait in common A (perhaps it is the power to
create convincing characters). We may presume, then, that A is a
The Types of Exposition 195
characteristic of all universally appealing literature (though, of
course, such literature may have many other characteristics).
Turning to the new work which we are about to criticize, we ask,
"Does it have characteristic A?" If it has, we may feel safe in saying
that this piece of work promises to be universally appealing that
it is great. If it has not characteristic A, we may feel equally safe in
saying that this particular work gives no promise of being univer-
sally appealing of being great. In other words, we use the writers
who have been universally appealing in the past as touchstones by
which to estimate the work we are trying to criticize now.
All this means that the best critic of art must be widely read and
experienced. He must know the art of the past, understand its char-
acteristics, and be able to make comparisons. He cannot be merely
an individual with a personal opinion.
This conception of criticism leaves room for originality at two
points. First, the critic may have an original opinion as to what
common trait the great art of the past possesses. He may think, for
example, that Chaucer, Shakespeare, Congreve, Fielding, and Smol-
lett possess in common not A ( the ability to create convincing char-
acters ) but X ( a certain shrewd way of looking at life ) .
Second, the critic may have an original opinion as to whether or
not this work he is criticizing really possesses A (or X). Some peo-
ple may think it does; others may disagree.
But this conception of criticism has one weakness: It does not
leave room for absolutely original genius. A new artist (James
Joyce, for instance ) may appear with a work having some trait never
before seen in works of that particular kind. The orthodox critic
would be quite justified in condemning this new work; and yet it
might happen that the new trait it possessed would turn out to be
universally appealing ever afterward. The orthodox critic, therefore,
would find himself altogether wrong in his judgment. But despite
this weakness, criticism should remain what we have said judg-
ment based on a knowledge and an understanding of the past. Ab-
solutely original artistic elements appear daily, but few of them
have any but a daily appeal. The critic will be right ninety-nine
times out of a hundred in refusing to recognize them as lasting. On
196 Creative Writing
the other hand, if he does have wisdom enough to recognize them,
and time proves he is right, the critic takes his place among the
highest critical geniuses. Which chance the young critic should take
being right ninety-nine per cent of the time, or perhaps being a
critical genius let his own self-esteem determine.
In writing a criticism (as of a book, a play, a motion picture, a
painting, or a statue) the critic should let himself be governed by
a few elemental principles.
(1) Remembering that he is writing to give information, he
should tell something of the nature of the work its length or size,
its type (whether novel or drama, landscape painting or portrait,
bronze or marble), its place of production or present location, its
date, and any other such information as may be helpful.
(2) Next, he should give a few facts about the artist (or author),
especially if the latter is relatively unknown, or if a knowledge of
some details of his life and personality may help the reader to a
better understanding of the work and the criticism. For instance, a
review of a book by Thomas Mann would be incomplete without
some mention of his nationality, and a criticism of a Gauguin paint-
ing would be unfair unless it revealed that Gauguin worked in the
brilliant sunlight of the South Seas.
( 3 ) The critic should tell what the work he is criticizing is about,
that is, he should give its subject. Ivanhoe is about Richard I and
England in the Norman-Saxon period; Strange Interlude is about a
neurotic woman who required four men to make her life complete;
Rembrandt's The Nightwatch portrays a party of soldiers issuing
from a gateway; and Cellini's Perseus shows the hero just after he
has slain Medusa. To say what a book is about does not mean that
the critic should actually summarize it. And yet a summary may
often be desirable. In a class report, a talk before a literary club, or
a comprehensive lecture a summary is almost necessary. But in a
book review intended for publication, and, in a way, intended as
an advertisement for the book, a complete summary is hardly fair
to the author. About all the reviewer should permit himself ( unless
the book is an unusually important work by an unusually important
author ) is a very brief sketch of plot and characters.
The Types of Exposition 197
(4) After he has said what the work is about, the critic should
probably tell its central theme ( if it has one ) . That is, he should tell
what philosophy, point of view, or criticism of life appears in the
work. Thus the critic would say of most of Hardy's novels that the
theme is the helplessness of human beings in the grip of an Im-
manent Will working by means of chance and coincidence to their
destruction. Often a picture has such a theme, and most sculpture of
the Rodin tradition has it. To take a single example, the theme ( shall
we call it ) of Rodin's The Thinker is, doubtless, that man, crude and
earthy as he is, yet strives to think out the mystery of life, and be-
cause he is crude and earthy, never succeeds.
(5) When the theme of the work has been told, the method in
which the theme and subject are handled deserves attention. Here
(if the work is a book) the style is analyzed, the characters are
studied, the inter estingness and the probability of the plot are criti-
cized, the genre to which the book belongs is made evident, and any
further opinions of the critic are enlarged upon. If the work belongs
to another one of the arts (such as painting or sculpture), its com-
position, its technical method, and its "school" require comment.
This part of the criticism is more fully and elaborately treated than
any other. It is here that the writer applies those standards of criti-
cism mentioned above, and exercises such judgment and originality
as he possesses.
(6) Finally, the work is located in relation to other work by the
same author; its importance as a contribution to its type is estimated;
its place in the development of certain artistic movements is fixed;
and, last of all, a brief summarizing evaluation is presented.
Probably not one criticism in fifty follows the procedure here
outlined. The order of parts is changed; entire parts are omitted;
certain parts are given preponderant amounts of space; and certain
other parts are abbreviated almost to nothingness. Nevertheless, the
elements of most good critical articles remain about as outlined. The
following review (by Theodore Purdy, Jr.), which appeared in the
Saturday Review of Literature some time ago is a good example of
what the ideal review should be:
198
Creative Writing
(2) Information about
the author:
(3) What the book is
about, with sum-
mary:
(1) Bibliographic facts: AXELLE. By PIERRE BENOIT. Dial. 1930,
$2.50.
The stories of Pierre Benoit have been
best-sellers in France for many years. No
railway book-stall is complete without "le
nouveau Benoit," and his success has only
been equalled by the rapidity of his produc-
tion and the variety of his subjects. "Konigs-
mark" and "L/Atlantide" have had their thou-
sands of readers and their millions in the
world's movie audiences, the latter, in fact,
had an almost unexcelled popularity as an
adventure novel, reviving the Jules Verne tra-
dition. "Axelle" is one of the Benoit's later
and less popular books, the post-war history
of a war-prisoner's romance with a fair en-
emy. In a prison camp near Konigsberg the
French sergeant Dumaine meets and falls in
love (after appropriate ponderings and hesi-
tations) with a local chatelaine, Fraulein
Mirrbach. In the gloomy castle of Reichen-
dorf in which she lives the Frenchman seems
to enjoy unusual liberty of entry while against
a background of warlike alarums the drama
of these two pawns in an international strug-
gle is played out to its obvious conclusion.
M. Benoit's book is more notable for its
broad viewpoint and bold admission that in
spite of propaganda to the contrary the Ger-
man nation may have contained a few excep-
tional individuals worthy to rank as human
beings, than for any great literary merit. It is
written in a straightforward, serviceable style,
and some of its descriptions of prison camp
life seem authentic, though the melodramatic
character of the Prussian general is in the old
traditions. Not an important book, nor a par-
ticularly interesting one, it yet serves to class
its author among the rapidly increasing party
in France which tends to advocate a wary,
but quite definite, rapprochement with Ger-
many. 1
1 Reprinted here by permission of The Saturday Review of Literature.
(4) The theme of the
book:
(5) The artistic method
of the book:
(6) Orientation of the
book:
The Types of Exposition 199
EXERCISES
I. THE FAMILIAR ESSAY
Make a list of ten subjects suitable for familiar essays. How many sub-
jects can you find by looking about you at this moment? Tell the type of
style you might adopt for each essay (as jocose, mock-serious, whimsical,
sad, genteel, simple and restrained, familiar and chatty, etc. ) .
II. EXPOSITION OF EVENTS
1. Diaries and Journals.
Keep a diary four days a week for at least two weeks.
If any of your classes is conducted as a general discussion, keep a
journal of proceedings for a few days.
2. History.
List important events in your life about which you might write a
detailed history; or list specific events in the history of your state about
which you would like to do research.
Do a little research to find the characteristic way in which the fol-
lowing interpret history: Arnold Toynbee; Charles and Mary Beard;
Frederick J. Turner; Edward Channing; Max Weber; Oswald Speng-
ler; Louis M. Hacker; Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.; Richard Henry
Tawney.
Do research for a short history of one of the following: some campus
periodical or organization; your immediate family for three genera-
tions; fashions in women's dress since 1910; the body of the automo-
bile; the Boston Bull Terrier; American domestic architecture since
1900; the last session of Congress; the game of bridge.
Write a short history of one of the following:
A brief period in the early days of your native town; of your
college; of your family; of your school career; of your first love affair.
Imagine you could translate yourself to any previous century. Write
a rather long history on one of the following topics:
A year with Caesar; Alfred the Great; William the Conqueror;
Frederick Barbarossa; Edward III; Cromwell; Captain John Smith;
William Bradford; General Sherman; General Lee.
3. Biography.
Write a "modern" biography of one of the following:
King John of England; Edmund Spenser; Chaucer; Sir Philip
Sidney; Christopher Marlowe; Ben Jonson; James II; James Thorn-
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son; Horace Walpole; William Blake; Jane Austen; Patrick Henry;
Foe; Ambrose Bierce.
4. Anecdote.
Find, and write down to hand in, two anecdotes about each of five
persons selected from those named in the two exercises above. Tell
what characteristics of the persons each anecdote illustrates.
5. The True-Experience Narrative.
Write a rather long account of some true experience you have had,
or some acquaintance has told you about. Be prepared to tell what
devices you have employed to make the narrative convincing and in-
teresting.
t>. The Narrative of Travel.
If you have made any extensive journey, imagine yourself repeating
it. Write a letter home (or an article for the home-town newspaper,
or an entry in your journal) telling about the trip itself. Then write
again, telling what you have done and found at the end of the trip.
7. The News Story.
Bring to class a copy of the local or campus newspaper. Analyze
several of the news stories to discover whether they are constructed
properly. If any seem faulty, try to find whether there is any justifica-
tion for their being so.
III. EXPOSITION OF FACTS
1. Definition.
Write paragraphs defining five of these terms:
Americanism. Progress.
Culture. Tolerance.
A gentleman. Morality.
Love. Modernism (in art).
Religion. Romanticism (in literature).
Socialism. Victorianism.
Democracy. Idealism.
2. Descriptive Exposition.
a. Write short concrete expository descriptions of three of the
following pairs:
An oak tree you know oak trees.
Your cat cats.
The architecture of your home the type of architecture to
which your home belongs.
The Types of Exposition
Your home town the type of town to which it belongs.
A person you know the physical type to which he belongs.
A picture by a certain artist the type of picture usually
painted by the same artist.
b. Write short abstract descriptions of three of the following:
The mentality of children about ten years of age.
A character sketch of an acquaintance.
Life in any small town (large town; the country).
Life in the dormitories of your college.
The administrative organization of your college.
The inferiority complex.
Hemingway's philosophy.
The emotional effects produced by music.
The stock market situation this month.
c. Write an exposition in which you classify the members be-
longing to any of the groups mentioned in the exercises for Section 3,
above.
3. Exposition of a Process.
Write an exposition on one of the following subjects. Show how
you might individualize the general processes suggested:
How the phonograph works.
How to study poetry.
How to study a picture.
How presidential candidates are nominated.
How the President is elected.
How a certain laboratory experiment is performed.
How the Atlantic was first spanned by air.
How the Germans were defeated in Africa.
How to plan and serve a dinner.
IV. EXPOSITION OF OPINION
1. Opinions about General Laws.
Write an exposition on one of the following topics:
What have we a right to believe?
Why men fight.
The art of living.
The new morality.
Living one's own life.
Fear.
How is freedom possible?
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Prayer.
Love as a philosophy of life.
Can we afford to be rational?
2. Opinions about Conditions, Facts, or Things.
a. Write an exposition about one of the following topics, which
refer to general conditions:
Why the people elected President Roosevelt in 1932; in 1936;
in 1940; in 1944.
Organized labor thirty years ago and today.
Why home is no longer the center of young people's social
life.
Good manners and the college student.
Tendencies in this year's fiction (drama, motion pictures,
poetry ) .
b. Write an exposition about one of the following topics, which
refer to specific facts:
Is pure mathematics a cultural subject?
Should college students be regular church members and at-
tendants? (Movie-goers? Sports enthusiasts?)
Why do birds migrate?
Is smoking injurious to the health?
What was the nature of Cowper's mental derangement?
c. Write criticisms of some book, picture, example of architecture,
and piece of sculpture with which you are acquainted.
CHAPTER X
The Methods of Exposition
In this chapter we shall discuss some of the most useful ways by
which information may be conveyed, ideas clarified, or opinions
influenced. Not every method here mentioned may be employed in
every kind of exposition; on the other hand, certain kinds of exposi-
tion may employ several of these methods.
1. The Chronological Method is used when we record events in
the order of their occurrence in time. Obviously it is useless in ex-
positions about static conditions where events occur neither to the
writer nor to the thing written about. Just as obviously it is the
simplest and most logical method for most expositions concerned
with changes occurring in place or time or form. 1
Changes depicted in the chronological order may be of two types:
(a) unique and (b) habitual. For example, if I am telling about
the events of, say, Gladstone's life, I am dealing with events which
have happened only once and will never happen again. But if I am
telling how Golden Plovers migrate up the interior of North Amer-
ica in spring, and then return to South America in autumn by an
overseas route from southeastern Canada, I am dealing with events
which occur habitually. In other words, though I am using the
chronological method in both narratives, the first employs the
1 It should be added here that this method ( often combined with the descrip-
tive method discussed below) is the one we frequently employ in portraying
cause-to-effect sequences. A cause and its effect do not often exist simultane-
ously, and even when they do we cannot write about them simultaneously. Con-
sequently, writing which shows a cause acting to produce an effect later in time
is actually narrative writing. At the same time the descriptive method may enter
into the composition by the writer's depicting the nature of the cause and of the
effect. For example, if we describe how a dog barks at a cat and the latter runs
up a tree, we shall be portraying a cause-to-effect sequence by means of the
chronological method, and at the same time we shall be using the descriptive
method.
203
04 Creative Writing
method of particularized narration, and the second generalized
narration.
2. The Descriptive Method may be used with either static or
changing events. It is the method employed when we wish to give
facts ( size, color, weight, etc. ) about the physical appearance or the
construction of things. It differs from the imaginative method by
not attempting to make the reader see the subject; it gives him in-
formation about the subject so that he may recognize it if he does
see it. Like the chronological method, the descriptive method may
be of two sorts : ( a ) description of particular things like a lost dog,
a table to be built, a house to be recognized, or a man wanted for
murder; and ( b ) description of general types like collie dogs, Queen
Anne tables, gothic buildings, and Cherokee Indians. That is, the
descriptive method may take the form of either particularized de-
scription or generalized description.
3. The Method of Classification involves the division of general
concepts (concrete or abstract) into particular groups. Each of the
preceding sections of this chapter, for example, resorts to the method
of classification by dividing each of the general methods into an a
and a b part. Cresar begins his Commentaries with the famous dec-
laration that "All Gaul is divided into three parts," and then proceeds
to describe each part in turn. Edmund Gosse writes of Swinburne's
lyrics, "We may well divide them into two large classes: those be-
longing to a pre-Christian and those belonging to a Christian age."
And the old proverb classifies great men in the familiar way: "Some
men are born great; some achieve greatness; and some have great-
ness thrust upon them."
The classification may be broad or detailed. For example, Gosse's
classification just quoted is extremely broad; and the classification
of expository methods in this chapter is rather detailed. But as long
as the classification is complete enough to include every member of
the group under examination, we need not complain.
We should be critical, however, of classifications which have no
unified basis of division. If Gosse had divided Swinburne's lyrics
into those belonging to a pre-Christian era and those written in
anapestic tetrameter, his classification would have been absurd. The
The Methods of Exposition $05
basis for division would not have been unified. The same would have
been true if the maker of the proverb had said, "Some men are born
great; some achieve greatness; and some go to Europe."
Nobody ever commits quite such ridiculous blunders as these
except for a humorous effect. But young writers have been known
to divide college students into the groups: "bookish, intelligent,
friendly, and socially inclined." Having no unified basis for his
classification, the writer who made this division of college students
did not form them into mutually exclusive groups. A college student
may belong to any one of the four groups mentioned, and yet belong
to all the others as well. Such non-unified standards of classification
are fatal to clear exposition.
4. Definition is a fourth method of exposition. A formal definition
states, first, the general class to which a thing belongs; and, second,
the way in which it is distinguished from all other members of that
class. A hawk, by way of illustration, is "any of a family of diurnal
birds of prey excepting eagles and vultures." A laundress is "a
woman whose employment is washing clothes."
Yet definition in this strict sense is not so common as a kind which
is definition only by a liberal extension of the word's meaning. To tell
the nature of a thing (like a razor or a political philosophy) to tell
what its appearance is, what it does, what it resembles, what it
stands for in our minds ( as a razor stands for shaving, and Fascism
for a dictator) this is to define. Some of the forms this kind of
definition may take are briefly discussed in the following paragraphs.
a. Synonyms are used to define many simple words, especially
verbs. To mourn, for example, is defined thus: "To grieve for;
lament; deplore; bewail." And to plague is defined thus: "To vex;
harass; torment; distress; annoy; tantalize; trouble."
b. Examples may be used as a means of definition. Thus ungulate
is defined in Webster's Dictionary as "any of a group consisting of
the hoofed mammals, as the ruminants, swine, horses, tapirs, rhinoc-
eros, elephants, and conies." And republic may be defined by refer-
ence to the United States, France, Ireland, Italy, and the Spanish-
American countries.
c. An enumeration of its qualities may define an object or a con-
W6 Creative Writing
dition. A greyhound is a "slender dog, remarkable for swiftness and
keen sight." Shakespeare defines Silvia by telling her qualities:
Who is Silvia, what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.
And Ruskin thinks that people tell what they are by showing what
they like:
Go out into the street and ask the first man or woman you meet what
their "taste" is, and if they answer candidly, you know them, body and
soul. "You, my friend in the rags, with the unsteady gait, what do you
like?" "A pipe and a quartern of gin." I know you. "You, good woman,
with the quick step and tidy bonnet, what do you like?" "A swept hearth
and a clean tea-table, and my husband opposite me, and a baby at my
breast." Good, I know you also. "You, little girl with the golden hair and
the soft eyes, what do you like?" "My canary and a run among the wood
hyacinths." "You, little boy with the dirty hands and the low forehead,
what do you like?" "A shy at the sparrows, and a game at pitch farthing."
Good; we know them all now. What more need we ask?
d. A thing may be defined according to its work or uses. A bed
is "an article of furniture to sleep or rest in or on." A ladybug is "a
small, roundish, often brightly colored [enumeration of qualities]
beetle, mostly feeding on insects and insects' eggs." A lady-killer is
"a man who captivates, or has the reputation of fascinating women."
H. W. Garrod makes these offhand definitions: A good book is one
which "addresses a large part of its appeal to imagination and emo-
tion"; and "the best critic of books, in the long run, is the man who
brings to the study of them a large charity."
e. Definition may be by means of an historical survey. No one can
define the Constitution of England without an elaborate survey of
history; and no one can define socialism without tracing it clear back
to Marx. Lager beer ( a name derived from the German word lager,
a storehouse ) is "so called from its being stored several months be-
fore use." And the words extrovert, introvert, and libido mean noth-
ing to us unless we have a knowledge of Jung and Freud.
The Methods of Exposition
5. Strictly speaking, Comparison and Contrast may be used as
means to define. But since they involve other elements than those
belonging absolutely to the thing defined, they are treated here as
a separate expository method.
We may best define communism by showing how it differs from
democracy; we may best portray political conditions in Wisconsin
by showing how they differ from political conditions in other states;
we may best tell something of President Franklin Roosevelt's policies
by showing how they differed from those of President Hoover and
Truman. On the other hand, we may explain certain things by show-
ing how they resemble other things. We may best describe English
rooks by comparing them to American crows or grackles; we may
best describe the government of Mexico by comparing it to our own
government; and we may best describe the Argentine Pampas by
comparing them to our own Great Plains.
6. Analogy is close kin to comparison. Indeed, it is comparison.
But it is comparison between things not at all related in their funda-
mental natures, and yet parallel in many of their forms or activities.
Thus a comparison between communism and socialism would not
be an analogy, but a comparison between communism and a colony
of ants would be. The purpose of analogy, like that of comparison,
is to express the unknown in terms of the known, the obscure in
terms of the clear, and the complex in terms of the simple. For
accomplishing this purpose the analogy is a highly useful and in-
teresting device; but if the analogy violates its fundamental purpose
by becoming long, elaborate, and complicated, it is worse than
useless. This caution is voiced because even experienced writers
frequently abuse the analogy by overdevelopment. Carried away
by their imagination, they wander into mazes of comparison that
leave the reader confused and breathless.
7. Presentation of Authority is a method used often, but seldom
exclusively, in exposition. By using this method, the writer does
one of two things: He either renounces personal views in favor of
the views of some authority, or else substantiates and supports
personal views by reference to authority. The method is extremely
useful because it gives the weight of important names or convincing
08 Creative Writing
workers to an unknown or inexperienced writer's work, because it
gives the weight of numbers to a single writer's work, and because
it shows that the writer is not ignorant. The method may take any
of the following forms:
a. The simplest is quotation. Here the writer actually quotes
what his authorities have said. By doing so, he has the very words
of his authority (not mere interpretation) to vouch for an idea
expressed. Quotation lends an interesting variety of style to a piece
of writing, and, if properly selected, may be more effective than
anything the writer himself can say. Yet no exposition should be a
mere patchwork of other people's words. If it is, the reader is certain
to think the writer a pedantic or timid soul who has not the courage
of his convictions; and if the reader is a professor and the writer a
student, the reader at once concludes that the writer has been pad-
ding the paper to avoid labor. In general, no more than one-fifth of
an exposition, at the very most, should consist of direct quotation
from other authors.
b. In place of quotation the writer may substitute paraphrase.
A paraphrase renders the sense of a passage. It may, therefore, be
either longer or shorter than the original, in the same or in a
different language, and in similar or in different words. A para-
phrase may amplify a terse or cryptic statement by expressing it
in more familiar terms, or by giving brief illustrations that will
clarify its meaning.
Thus the proverb, "Never look a gift-horse in the mouth," may
be paraphrased, "Do not be too critical of things you receive free.
For instance, if someone gives you a ride in his automobile, don't
find fault with the way the motor works." Here the original passage
has been amplified, and has been illustrated by an example more
understandable than the original to a modern generation unac-
quainted with horses.
Sometimes the authority has written in a foreign language. If
so, the writer who wishes to use the authority must either trans-
late him directly (with a note, if the passage is vital, to the effect
that the quotation is a personally translated version), or may para-
The Methods of Exposition 209
phrase him in English. Such a paraphrase as this, however, is more
likely to be a summary than a strict paraphrase.
Sometimes a paraphrase may use words much like those in the
original passage. The proverb just quoted, for example, may be
paraphrased, "Never look into the mouth to discover the age and
value of a horse that has been given to you." But, in general, a
paraphrase should avoid the phraseology of the original passage.
Suppose the original passage read like this:
Radical critics of the American press are fond of saying that journalism
is not, and under existing conditions cannot be, a profession. They point
out that the American newspaper editor is usually only the hired em-
ployee of the owner, and that the ultimate authority always rests with
the latter.
And suppose the student paraphrases the passage:
Radical critics of the American press say that journalism is not and
cannot be a profession. They say that the newspaper editor is only an
employee of the owner, with whom the ultimate authority rests.
This paraphrase is unfair to the original authority. It is made up
almost entirely of his very words, and yet it purports to be an
original paraphrase. The revised passage should be set in quota-
tion marks with a row of dots to indicate omitted words. Or else
it should be reworked to look something like this:
Radical critics say that since practically every newspaper editor in
America derives all his authority from the owner of his paper, journalism
is not and cannot at present be a profession.
As a rule, more than three or four important words ( not articles,
prepositions, conjunctions, etc.) quoted in the sequence of their
occurrence in an original passage ought to be enclosed in quotation
marks.
c. The summary differs from the paraphrase in purpose. Where
the paraphrase merely tries to give the sense of a passage, the sum-
mary tries to give the sense in a briefer form than that of the orig-
inal. Moreover, a paraphrase is always the re-rendering of a mere
passage, whereas a summary may be a brief statement of the funda-
810 Creative Writing
mental meaning of an entire volume. A writer paraphrases a para-
graph and summarizes a chapter or a book.
A summary, therefore, requires more originality on the part of
a writer than does a paraphrase. It requires discrimination, selec-
tion, judgment about what the original writer considered important,
and a power to retain the original emphasis within a smaller com-
pass. The writer who summarizes must discriminate between what
is essential and what unessential; he must select from a number
of subsidiary ideas and facts only those cardinal ones for which
he has space; he must decide which ideas or facts were most im-
portant in the original authority's mind, and which render the most
representative picture of that mind; and then he must express all
this in a properly related and proportioned summary which may
be a hundred times shorter than the original work.
To do all this, a writer should first read through the work to
be summarized in order to find out and express in words its central
thesis. He should then try to find out the half-a-dozen or so main
divisions of the work, and express their significance in a sentence
for each one. And finally he should supplement this bare outline
with as many subsidiary ideas as he has room for. His summary,
then, will be little more than a series of points supporting a central
fdea.
d. Interpretation demands even more originality of a writer, and
involves a greater responsibility. The number of lawsuits brought
to the courts annually, and the number of religious disputes among
Christians for the last five centuries show how serious and vital the
matter of interpretation may be. Yet despite all the money spent
and all the lives lost in support of certain interpretations, few
would-be interpreters really possess the interpreter's spirit. Too often
they are concerned with twisting the meaning of their authority
into something that will harmonize with their own desires. They do
not try to enter sympathetically into the sense and spirit of an au-
thority in order to find the absolute truth about that authority.
A truly honorable interpreter studies the personal conditions un-
der which his authority wrote, finds out everything needful about
the period and the place in which the authority worked, correlates
The Methods of Exposition
different works by the same authority, and tries to discover what
motives inspired him what biases he had, what limitations of
knowledge he possessed, what fundamental desires he worked to
satisfy. Having done all this, and having resolved to keep an im-
partial point of view, the would-be interpreter may venture to
undertake his task. He need not fear that his interpretation will
lack originality. If it is the result of personal research and inde-
pendent thinking, it cannot help being original for the simple
reason that no two human beings see and think alike. All he need
fear is that the interpretation will not be fair to the original author.
We have now discussed four ways in which exposition by the
presentation of authority may be written. Need we add that honesty
and consideration for others require that all use of authorities be
documented? Formal expositions require copious footnotes and com-
plete bibliographies; less formal expositions require at least an
acknowledgment in a foreword or in the text itself.
8. We may develop exposition by the Method of Illustration.
Suppose a lecturer says, "The American dollar is worth less today
than it was in 1935." His audience looks blank. And the lecturer
adds, "Let me illustrate. In 1935 you could buy bread at five cents
a loaf and milk at six cents a quart. Today you pay for these articles
fifteen and twenty-two cents. That is what I mean when I say
the dollar is worth less." The lecturer has used the method of illus-
tration.
To employ this method is merely to take the advice already given
for another purpose: "Convert the abstract into the concrete, and
the general into the specific/* An illustration makes clear a vague or
complex idea; it shows how a theory works, or how a general law
applies to specific facts. This clarifying function of illustration dis-
tinguishes it from the closely related method to be discussed next.
9. The Use of Examples is one of the most interesting, convincing,
and informative of the methods of exposition. Sometimes it overlaps
the method just discussed. That is, examples may be used to give
clarity to general ideas; yet examples, properly speaking, are merely
specific instances. They are subheads under a large division. But
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the distinction between illustration and example is largely academic;
most writers use both terms almost interchangeably.
The following passage illustrates the method:
No general strike has ever been even partly successful in this country
or in any other. In 1919 the Seattle general strike, the first experienced
in the United States, officially collapsed on its fifth day under the weight
of its own inefficiency. In the same year the Winnipeg general strike,
which lasted six weeks, ended in riots, arrests, and trials for seditious con-
spiracy, with none of the aims of the strike accomplished. Great Britain's
general strike of 1926 lasted thirteen days, and ended in failure because
the general public co-operated against organized labor. The great general
strike in Sweden in 1909 likewise failed because public sentiment and
public co-operation aligned themselves against the strikers.
The writer here does not resort to examples to clarify a state-
ment, for his original generalization is perfectly clear. Instead, he
resorts to examples as a means of amplifying a statement which
might otherwise have been unimpressively brief. Or perhaps he
resorts to them as a means of proving his original statement, or
as a means of lending interest to a generalized statement, or as a
means of conveying more specific knowledge.
Examples may serve any of these four purposes of exposition.
But to do so, they must necessarily be either (a) single examples
thoroughly representative of many others like them, or else (b)
numerous examples which are all relatively short.
The single example must contain within itself the plain and ob-
vious proof that it is really representative. By way of illustration, a
single beetle of a certain species is plainly and obviously repre-
sentative of all beetles of that species; when we have found out
about the structure of this one beetle, we have found out about the
structure of its entire species.
Numerous examples ought to be individually short. A long illus-
tration may be read patiently but not a series of long examples.
If they are individually long, they overshadow the main idea to
which each should be subordinate.
As a rule, numerous short examples are preferable to a single
long representative example. When their number is scanty, exam-
The Methods of Exposition
pies do not contribute to interest or variety, or prove much, or
amplify greatly, or convey much knowledge.
10. Exposition by the Use of Details is allied to the preceding
method; but it is more closely allied to definition by enumeration
of qualities and to expository description. If I say that a bed has
springs, mattress, a headpiece, a footpiece, linens, and a coverlet, I
am defining it, describing it, and (at the same time) giving details
about it. Or if I say that a man is handsome, and then go on to
mention certain features ( eyes, nose, mouth, and hair ) which make
him handsome, I am describing him, and yet at the same time I am
giving details about him.
Often, however, details are neither definitive nor descriptive.
They merely give more and more information. Mrs. Malaprop's
famous speech on feminine education illustrates this use of detail.
We could find, perhaps, a more solemn illustrative passage, but
never one more charming in diction:
Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of
mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes
a young woman; for instance I would never let her meddle with Greek,
or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such in-
flammatory branches of learning neither would it be necessary for her to
handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments;
but, Sir Anthony, I would send her at nine years old to a boarding-school,
in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, Sir, she should
have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and as she grew up, I would
have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the
contagious countries; but above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress
of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so
shamefully as girls usually do; and likewise that she might reprehend the
true meaning of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would
have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article
,
in it.
Much (one almost says most) exposition adopts the method of
using details. A writer blocks off a certain area to be filled, and
then, by means of detail, proceeds to fill it; he determines the gen-
eral divisions of his composition, and then, by means of giving
additional information about each, elaborates on his outline. This
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is the method of most textbooks, most newspaper stories, most en-
cyclopedias, most histories in fact, all types of exposition devoted
to giving absolute factual information rather than arguments or
inferences.
11. Every lecturer and every textbook writer ought to make
liberal use of the Method of Repetition in exposition. Without being
cynical, one may aver that a lecturer may depend upon having the
attention of only about one- third of his audience at any time; and a
textbook writer may depend upon having about the same proportion
of attentive readers at any paragraph. (This estimate takes no ac-
count, of course, of that ten per cent in any audience or any group
of readers who never do listen and never are alert.) Accordingly,
lecturers and writers should repeat at least their important ideas
three times. Such repetition is a recognized method of exposition.
It helps to inform, to clarify, and to convince and that is all we
can expect of any exposition.
As we have already seen in the chapters on style, repetition may
involve words and phrases. Just now, however, we are concerned
with the repetition of ideas as a means of developing exposition.
As with repeated words, repeated ideas serve to intensify and to
clarify writing. When, in the course of his funeral oration, Shake-
speare's Mark Antony repeats six times in fifty lines the ironical
phrase, "Brutus is an honourable man," he repeats in order to in-
tensify. In the following passage from William Hazlitt's essay, "On
Going a Journey," repetition serves to clarify. Each sentence repeats
the idea expressed in the first sentence, and yet each sentence adds
details which help the reader understand more clearly the basic idea
in the passage:
It seems that we can think of but one place at a time. The canvas of
the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we paint one set of objects on
it, they immediately efface every other. . . . The landscape bares its
bosom to the enraptured eye, we take our fill of it, and seem as if we
would form no other image of beauty or grandeur. We pass on, and think
no more of it: the horizon that shuts it from our sight also blots it from
our memory like a dream. In travelling through a wild barren country I
can form no idea of a woody and cultivated one. It appears to me that all
the world must be barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget
The Methods of Exposition 815
the town, and in town we despise the country. . . . All that part of the
map that we do not see before us is blank.
Repetition of ideas may serve one purpose in addition to those
served by the repetition of words. It may amplify. When a writer
wishes to stress an idea, he cannot usually afford to state it in a
short space. Taking advantage of the law of proportion, he will
so enlarge upon his idea that the reader cannot avoid being im-
pressed. In the following passage, H. G. Wells (having classified
men into those who look toward the past and those who look toward
the future) says that most people belong to neither of the types
he has named. He repeats the idea three times in four sentences
all for the sake of giving it an amount of space proportional to its
importance:
Now I do not wish to suggest that the great mass of people belong to
either of these two types. Indeed, I speak of them as two distinct and
distinguishable types mainly for convenience and in order to accentuate
their distinction. There are probably very few people who brood con-
stantly upon the past without any thought of the future at all, and there
are probably scarcely any who live and think consistently in relation to
the future. The great mass of people occupy an intermediate position
between these extremes.
Naturally the method of repetition may be limited in its appli-
cation: one cannot say something and then keep on repeating it
throughout an entire composition. But it is a method too little used
by inexperienced writers. As an old professor once remarked, "A
thing worth saying once is worth saying twice/' That is an aphorism
which every young writer ought to remember.
12. We may write exposition by means of showing a Cause-and-
Effect Relationship between facts. We may begin with the fact as
a cause, and proceed to show the effect it has or may have; or we
may begin with a fact as an effect, and work backward to show
its probable cause. In the first of the following passages, Alfred
Russel Wallace uses the cause-to-effect method to explain why
the sky is blue, and in the second he uses the effect-to-cause method
to explain why certain parts of the sky are not blue.
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We have seen that the air near the earth's surface is full of rather coarse
particles which reflect all the rays, and which therefore produce no one
color. But higher up the particles necessarily become smaller and smaller,
since the comparatively rare atmosphere will only support the very small-
est and lightest. These exist throughout a great thickness of air, perhaps
from one mile to ten miles high or even more, and blue or violet rays
being reflected from the innumerable particles in this great mass of air,
which is nearly uniform in all parts of the world as regards the presence
of minute dust particles, produces the constant and nearly uniform tint
we call sky-blue.
If we look at the sky on a perfectly fine summer's day, we shall find
that the blue color is the most pure and intense overhead, and when look-
ing high up in a direction opposite to the sun. Near the horizon it is
always less bright, while in the region immediately round the sun it is
more or less yellow. The reason for this is that near the horizon we look
through a very great thickness of the lower atmosphere, which is full of
the larger dust particles reflecting white light, and this dilutes the pure
blue of the higher atmosphere seen beyond. And in the vicinity of the sun
a good deal of the blue light is reflected back into space by the finer dust,
thus giving a yellowish tinge to that which reaches us reflected chiefly
from the coarse dust of the lower atmosphere.
The logic of these two passages is unassailable (so far as one
who is no physicist can tell) because each step of the reasoning
is based firmly on demonstrable fact. Sometimes, however, the line
between demonstrable fact and mere presumption is exceedingly
hard to draw. Sir Oliver Lodge, a great physicist, believes that
spirit-people are demonstrable facts; Professor Robert Andrews
Millikan, an equally great physicist, believes that they are not. How,
then, are we to use the idea of spirit-people to discover logical
causes, or to argue toward logical effects? The answer is that we
must rely on inferences. These we shall examine in another chapter.
EXERCISES
1. The Chronological Method.
Tell how you could use the chronological method in expositions
on the following subjects:
The manufacture of brooms.
The high school curriculum.
Scenery along the Hudson.
Social measures enacted recently by the federal government.
The Methods of Exposition
The British novel in the twentieth century.
The natural history of the pelican.
The exhibits in a certain museum.
Living conditions on B Street.
Bee-culture.
2. The Descriptive Method.
In three expository paragraphs describe three of the following as
individuals, and at the same time as representatives of types:
One of your professors.
A friend of foreign extraction.
A railway conductor.
A prominent building in your town.
A small residence in your neighborhood.
A street you know.
A tree you know.
A classroom.
Your dog or cat.
3. The Method of Classification.
Name several bases of classification which you could use in di-
viding each of the following into classes:
College students. Popular magazines.
Preachers. Sports in your college.
Small cars. Native trees.
Dogs. Dwelling houses.
4. Definition.
Define each of the following in at least three of the ways men-
tioned in the text:
A dictator. The one-hundred-percent American.
A lover. The Democratic party.
Sentimentality. The English long bow.
A Middle- Westerner. A tabloid newspaper.
College spirit. A good detective story.
5. Comparison and Contrast.
Suggest comparisons and contrasts that might be used in exposi-
tions on the following subjects:
Charity. The ideal student.
Art. Rembrandt's art.
Poetry. Dickens's characters.
Communism. Psychology as a science.
Fear. American imperialism.
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6. Analogy.
See Exercise 7e and 7f of Chapter I.
7. The Presentation of Authority.
a. Paraphrase the following:
Error of opinion may be tolerated where reason is left free
to combat it. Jefferson.
Ill doings breed ill thinkings. Roger Ascham.
The Phylosopher teacheth a disputative vertue. Sir Philip
Sidney.
A man that is young in years may be old in hours. Sir
Francis Bacon.
Without an outlet for political initiative, men lose their
social vigor and their interest in public affairs. Bertrand
Russell.
b. Write summaries of the following:
One of Bacon's essays.
One of Lamb's essays.
Gray's "Elegy."
Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale."
Arnold's "Literature and Science."
c. Give your interpretation of the following:
Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou also be
like unto him.
Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his
own conceit. Proverbs xxvi, 4-5.
But Nature, which is the Time-vesture of God, and reveals
Him to the wise, hides Him from the foolish. Carlyle.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."
So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
The Methods of Exposition %19
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite/*
William Blake.
8. The Method of Illustration.
Explain each of the following topics by means of an illustration:
Why the United States went to war in Korea.
Why England retains a king.
What some domestic policy of the United States government
has meant to poor people; to rich people; to the middle class.
Why men have more (or less) artistic originality than women.
Why like seeks like.
9. The Use of Examples.
Develop the following ideas (or their negatives) by means of
examples:
Our House of Representatives is unworthy of a great people.
The legislative and the executive branches of our government
live lives antagonistic to each other.
American women are spoiled, and American men have spoiled
them.
Interest in a subject is derived from knowledge of that subject.
Most salesmen are high in the scale of integrity.
Among the examples you have just mentioned, which seem to be
representative enough to stand alone?
What are the functions of the other examples to amplify, to
prove, to lend interest, or to convey new knowledge?
10. The Use of Details.
Develop the following ideas by the use of details:
The first rule, then, for a good style is that the author have
something to say. Schopenhauer.
A sentence should read as if its author, had he held a plough
instead of a pen, could have drawn a furrow deep and straight
to the end. Thoreau.
The first duty of the writer is to make the path easy for the
reader. Brander Matthews.
Logic compels us to throw our meaning into distinct proposi-
tions, and our reasonings into distinct steps. John Stuart Mill.
<2<20 Creative Writing
If your language be jargon, your intellect, if not your whole
character, will almost certainly correspond. Quiller-Couch.
11. The Method of Repetition.
a. See the Exercises for Chapter I, Section 6.
b. By means of repetition, amplify each of the following state-
ments into a single paragraph:
No law can be sacred to me but that of my own nature.
Emerson.
Either death is a state of nothingness and utter unconscious-
ness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul
from this world to another. Plato.
The more confidence a man has in himself, and the more
thoroughly he is fortified by virtue and wisdom, so that he is in
need of no one . . . the more noteworthy is he for the friend-
ships which he seeks. Cicero.
Education is the instruction of the intellect in the laws of
Nature, under which name I include not merely things and their
forces, but men and their ways. Huxley.
It is certain, to begin with, that the narrowest trade or profes-
sional training does something more for a man than to make him
a skillful practical tool it makes him also a judge of other men's
skill. William James.
L2. The Method of Cause-and-Effect Relationships.
In the following pairs of phrases, the first member is a cause and
the second an effect. Plan short expositions in which you move,
first, from cause to effect, and then from effect back to cause.
Harsh parents dishonest children.
Indulgent parents selfish children.
Indifferent voters corrupt officeholders.
Prosperous times indifferent voters.
Prosperous times religious indifference.
Religious indifference corrupt officeholders.
CHAPTER XI
A rgumentation
Argumentation is a form of exposition. Like other exposition, it
gives instruction in facts, in the meaning of facts, or in certain in-
tellectual or emotional points of view. To accomplish its purpose,
it must convince readers both of the Tightness of certain facts, in-
terpretations, or points of view, and of the wrongness of others. Its
nature is thus both positive and negative. Since other chapters in
this book deal with the positive aspects of exposition, this chapter
deals mostly with the negative aspects that is, means of refuting
other people's arguments.
1. THE FALLACY OF RATIONALIZATION. Let us comment briefly
here on the psychological source of most fallacies. The greatest
deceptions practiced by most people are self-deceptions. A college
student may sincerely believe that his college is the best in his state;
but he believes it not because he has investigated and compared,
but only because it is his own college. A patriot may believe that
his own national anthem is the most beautiful of all national anthems
not because he is a competent musical critic, but because the
anthem is his own. A boy may believe his dog the most intelligent,
most loyal, best-natured dog on the street not because he has care-
fully compared all dogs on the street, but because his dog is his.
Student, patriot, and boy are rationalizing. They find grounds for
believing what they want to believe. Likewise, when an American
cattle-raiser argues (quite sincerely) that government's placing a
ceiling on meat prices, or lowering tariffs on Argentine meat, is un-
American, communistic, and dangerous to the nation's economic
structure he is very likely to be rationalizing. On the other hand,
when the city consumer argues (equally sincerely) that govern-
ment's not putting a ceiling on meat prices, and not lowering tariffs
221
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on Argentine beef is a sellout to the vested interests, capitalism at
its worst, and greedy isolationism he too is very probably ra-
tionalizing. Unfortunately, not much can be done about refuting
such fallacies. All that the writer can do is to point out how self-
interest distorts judgment . . . and to try to avoid rationalizing in
his own mind.
2. FALLACIES DUE TO DICTION. Mr. A. E. Mander, in the first
chapter of his Logic for the Millions ( 1947 ) , clearly analyzes certain
fallacies that are due to verbal confusions.
a. Confusion, or seemingly invalid argument, may result from an
actual misunderstanding of the words used. Thus Time magazine
onre graphically described a smoky torchlight procession through
blacked-out wartime London. The incident seemed very odd until
one remembered that what Englishmen call torches, Americans call
flashlights. Obviously, Time's London correspondent had cabled
news of the incident, using the word torches; then the American
rewrite man, not knowing the British meaning of the word, and
wishing to do some vivid reporting, manufactured the rest. Many
words have different meanings or implications in different English-
speaking countries; and many words mean very different things to
different people in the same English-speaking country. Thus, the
word passion to a religious person means suffering; to a psycholo-
gist, it implies strong emotion; to many people, it implies sexual
desire. To a linguist, romance means "derived from the Latin lan-
guage"; to a literary historian it may mean "a tale of adventure,
particularly one written in the Middle Ages"; and to a schoolgirl
it means love.
Sometimes, indeed, the most violent disputes and what may seem
to be the most perilous fallacies develop because different people
understand good English words differently. Is a certain economic
measure socialistic? Is a certain point of view communistic? Does a
certain college give its students a good education? What is the
American way of life? Is a certain action of an individual or of a
state moral? Probably no two people understand any of these words
in exactly the same way; and some people understand them in
diametrically opposed ways. The first thing to establish in any
Argumentation
argument is a precise definition of the principal terms to be used.
And the first point to be examined in criticizing any argument is
the writer's use of certain terms.
b. What Mr. Mander calls unfinished terms (usually adjectives)
are another source of confusion and fallacy in argument. "Is Eng-
lish A a better course than English B?" Better for what or for whom?
The word better cannot be made to stand alone without further
explanation. "What good will this course do me?" Good in what
way financial, moral, intellectual, recreational, technical, profes-
sional, academic, or what? "It is dangerous to change horses in
midstream." Dangerous to whom? Precisely what danger is involved?
"Life in communistic Russia would be intolerable." Intolerable to
whom to Russian laborers, or American millionaires, or South
African Negroes, or Chinese communists? "Conditions have much
improved." Improved for whom? For what groups? For what na-
tions? In relation to what? Precisely how? "The lower classes pro-
duce too many children." In what way are they low? They are low
in relation to what, or to whom? How many is "too many"? Too
many children for what, or for whom, or in relation to what? An
extraordinarily large part of all the talk one hears everywhere now-
adays about politics, economics, and international relations involves
use of unfinished terms by people who cannot or will not think
problems through to the end.
c. Colored terms constitute a third source of confusion and fallacy.
Words colored by associations have come into practical use on
every side in this day of the advertiser and the publicity man.
Editorialists, columnists, feature-writers, commentators on the radio,
and politicians have not been slow to learn the ways of these words.
To see how devastating an effect the colored word may have, let us
manufacture some shocking examples :
Jesus wept.
Jesus blubbered.
Jesus took his disciples apart and said unto them. . . .
Jesus went into a huddle with his gang, and harangued them. . . .
Suffer the little children to come unto me.
Let the little brats come in.
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Anyone who wishes to see this sort of writing at its best (or worst)
has only to read the political and international columns of this na-
tion's most popular newsmagazine. Almost any common idea can be
expressed in terms colored to make the naive and unsuspecting
reader feel exactly what the writer wants him to feel without the
reader's ever being aware that he is being subtly influenced. Thus
we can speak of a "well-meaning man" or a "goody-goody man";
of a "good and faithful servant" or a "time-serving flunkey"; of a
"firm expression on his countenance" or a "hard look on his face";
of "the people" or "the mob"; of "freedom" or "license"; of "desperate
courage" or "fanatical resistance"; of a "smile" or a "smirk"; of
"eating heartily" or "cramming gluttonously." Every reader and
writer should learn to recognize such terms in other people's ex-
positions, and (if he wishes to beat the modern world at its own
game) to use them in his own arguments.
3. INFERENCE. Logic, in its essence, is based altogether on in-
ference. We speak to a person in the same room, and infer that he
will hear; we write a sentence, and infer that other people will un-
derstand what we mean; we read in the newspaper that the Congress
has passed a bill, and we infer that it is true. All these are simple,
direct inferences. But sometimes we lengthen the step between
demonstrable fact and conclusion. We look about our room for a
book, do not find it, and infer that we have left it at the college;
we see our friend dressing in his best clothes after dinner, and infer
that he is going out for the evening; we notice that another friend is
sneezing and sniffling, and infer that he has a cold.
Any inference may be wrong. That is why it is only an inference.
The person in the same room with us may be so absorbed in reading
that he will not hear us; the sentence we write may be unintelligible
to others; and the newspaper account of the action of the Congress
may be false. Likewise, we may have lost our book on the way
over from the college; our friend may be dressing to receive a caller;
and the other friend may be sneezing and sniffling because the
pepper-shaker emptied itself in his plate at dinner. Any inference
may be wrong yet we spend our lives making inferences.
a. We make them on the strength of evidence. Now, evidence
Argumentation
is of two sorts: evidence from authority, and evidence from ex-
perience. The first is what other people tell us, and the second
is what we observe or experience for ourselves. Reading in the
newspaper or listening to someone talk about a murder is obtain-
ing evidence from authority; seeing the murder is obtaining evi-
dence from experience.
If we merely present the evidence we have obtained, we are
writing exposition according to the method of description or the
method of presenting authority. But if, in addition to presenting
the evidence, we try to decide for ourselves and others just who
committed the murder, why he committed it, and whether or not
he was justified in the deed, we are using the method of inference.
We are making inferences, and we hope other people who read or
listen to us will make the same inferences.
We move from evidence to inference along either of two roads.
The first is called induction, the second deduction.
b. We use inductive reasoning when we collect a certain amount
of evidence from authority or from experience, and then make an
inference based on our evidence. This is the scientific method of
reasoning.
Suppose the President of the nation is confronted with an un-
desirable economic situation in the country. Wishing to remedy
it, he begins collecting evidence. He accumulates statistics, he
makes comparisons, he learns what various authorities believe, he
investigates what other nations have done to relieve similar situa-
tions, and he studies the effect certain remedies have had in the
past. Then he makes an inference: he decides that a certain gov-
ernmental policy will relieve the situation. He has worked in-
ductively by making a generalization based on a very large amount
of evidence. His generalization may be wrong, his inference false;
but the error will be due to some fallacy in his judging the evidence.
His method has been scientific.
Some inferences may be based on no such large amount of evi-
dence, but on a single fact. If my newspaper tells me that the
President of France is seriously ill, I accept that authority without
demanding further evidence, and infer that he really is ill. If at
$88 Creative Writing
night I hear what sounds like rain pattering on the roof, I accept
that evidence, and infer that it really is raining. If I taste an olive
on a dish and find it palatable, I infer that all the olives on the
same dish are equally palatable I need not taste them all. True,
my single bit of evidence may be insufficient on each of these occa-
sions, and my inference may be wrong. But the method is our main
interest just now it is inductive. We shall discuss the fallacies later.
A third kind of induction is inference from comparison or analogy.
Suppose that we have two things which, evidence has shown, are
alike in many ways. We often infer, therefore, that they are alike
in a certain other way about which we do not have evidence. We
have found, for example, that one of a pair of twins likes the color
red; and we infer that the other one also will like it. Or we have
found that a certain drug is fatal to monkeys, and we infer that it
will be fatal to human beings as well. Or we have found that a
horse works more efficiently if he is allowed to rest three minutes
every half hour, and we infer that an automobile likewise will work
more efficiently if it is allowed the same amount of rest. All of these
inferences are based upon observed resemblances between two
things: twins, monkeys and human beings, horses and automobiles.
Some of these inferences may be right and some (like the last)
altogether wrong. But the method is inductive. It proceeds from
particular instances by means of inference to a conclusion.
c. Deductive reasoning, on the other hand, shows how a general
principle applies to a particular instance or how a particular in-
stance illustrates a general principle. A hoary example (put in the
form of what is called a "syllogism" ) will illustrate:
Major Premise: All men are mortal.
Minor Premise: Socrates is a man.
Conclusion: Therefore Socrates is mortal.
Here the reasoning works downward from the general principle
to the particular instance ( Socrates ) .
Deductive reasoning, unlike inductive reasoning, always begins
with an assumption. If the assumption has evolved from the in-
ductive process, it may be justifiable. For example, the general
Argumentation
principle that "All men are mortar has been proved over and
over again by inductive experience. But if the general principle
were some such statement as this: "All millionaires are dishonest/'
the assumption that, since Mr. X. is a millionaire, Mr. X. is dis-
honest would not be justifiable. The major premise has not been
proved inductively. But even if the major premise were true and
yet the minor premise were untrue (if Mr. X. is really not a mil-
lionaire ) , the conclusion would still be unjustifiable.
In any event, therefore, deductive reasoning must depend ulti-
mately on evidence derived from particular instances; that is, on
inductive reasoning.
Inductive reasoning, in turn, always involves making inferences.
In the rest of this chapter we shall discuss the most common reasons
why some inferences are invalid, and, by implication, why some are
valid.
4. FALLACIES OF THE INDUCTIVE METHOD. The inductive method
fails when the final inference is unjustified by the evidence. It will
be recalled that inductive inference may grow from one of three
sources: many bits of evidence, one representative or conclusive
bit of evidence, or comparison. Accordingly, inductive reasoning
may break down along any of these three avenues of inference.
a. The number of examples brought forward may be too small
to justify generalization. Suppose my two cats like chocolate candy.
From these two examples, would I be justified in saying, "All cats
like chocolate candy"? By no means. The number of examples is
too small to justify generalization. Or suppose ten people are in
this room. I inquire how old each person is, but somehow manage
to skip one of the ten. None of the nine people I have asked, how-
ever, is less than twenty years old. Would I, then, be justified in
declaring absolutely, "Everybody in this room is over twenty years
of age"? By no means. Anything less than the total number of ex-
amples here is insufficient to justify generalization.
All this does not mean, of course, that we must account for every
single example in every group before we can safely generalize about
it. We may safely generalize about thousands of individual birds or
insects or flowers from examining a dozen specimens belonging to
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one species. Just why so minute a percentage is satisfactory here,
whereas ninety per cent of the people in the room was not satis-
factory, it is difficult for us to say. Experience alone (that is, in-
ductive evidence ) acquired almost unconsciously through a lifetime
tells us when a number of examples is too small. That is a vague
statement, but it is the only one possible.
b. But what about generalization from a single bit of evidence?
From eating one olive, are we justified in concluding that all the
olives on a dish are good? Again the answer must be vague. Only
experience we have had with other articles on other dishes will
tell us whether we should trust the sample olive to be a representa-
tive example.
c. The same thing is true when the basis of generalization is
an analogy or a comparison. Experience has shown us that we can-
not treat horses and automobiles alike, even though the function of
each is the same. Experience has shown likewise that we may treat
one horse more or less as we treat another. A comparison is involved
in each illustration; but only by experience can we know how far
to carry the comparison. 1
Experience, then, is the final authority, whether we argue from
many examples, from one example, or from analogy or comparison.
But experience itself (as the term is used here) is merely a rough
generalization based on many years' accumulation of evidence. That
is, experience is merely induction.
5. FALLACIES OF THE DEDUCTIVE METHOD. Fallacies in a syllogism
are nearly always due to untruth in major or minor premise. This is
equivalent to saying that most deductive fallacies are due to the
inductive fallacies just discussed. For example: All Presidents of the
United States are great men; Mr. X. is President of the United
States; therefore Mr. X. is a great man. The major premise here is
unsound; it has not grown out of a valid inductive process. Suppose
the argument read: All birds have feathers; bats are birds; therefore
bats have feathers. Here the defect lies in the minor premise. Bats
are not birds.
1 As a matter of fact, all analogies and almost all comparisons are false if
carried to extremes. The proper use of analogy is for clarification, not proof.
Argumentation
Though many types of syllogisms ( involving the use of words like
"some," "no," and "all") exist, the fundamental syllogistic pattern is
this:
A=B A<B
C = A or C = A
.'.C = B .'.C<B
Any other arrangement of the elements in the syllogism creates a
fallacy. The following syllogisms contain fallacies which the student
may analyze for himself:
All horses are quadrupeds.
Fido (the dog) is a quadruped.
Therefore Fido is a horse.
All Frenchmen are Europeans.
Hitler was a European.
Therefore Hitler was a Frenchman.
6. FALLACIES OF INCLUSION. Some arguments are faulty because
they include more than logic justifies. They are closely related to
some of the fallacies discussed in the previous section, and are some-
times indistinguishable from them.
a. Some of these fallacies involve the use of too-inclusive words.
Writing in 1749, a woman correspondent of Samuel Richardson
remarked of the word sentimental: "Everything clever and agree-
able is comprehended in that word." Today "everything clever and
agreeable" seems to be comprehended in the words "democratic"
and "American"; and everything stupid and disagreeable is com-
prehended in the words "communistic" and "un-American." To be
sure, most of us prefer democracy and Americanism to communism
and un-Americanism (if the terms are at all comprehensible). But
when politicians persuade great numbers of people to dislike a
thousand things (from public health measures to social security)
by calling them "communistic" and "un-American," the terms are
being applied in too broad a sense, and the people who are seriously
influenced by them are victims of a logical fallacy. In the same way,
though the open shop, untaxed inheritances, wages and prices ar-
rived at by the natural laws of supply and demand, and the entire
%30 Creative Writing
profit system may be altogether advisable for the country's general
prosperity they do not deserve support simply because certain
persons cloak them with the terms "American" and "democratic."
Those words are too broad, too inclusive. Using them to evoke praise
or blame for a project is no substitute for logic. Other terms of the
same sort are "the American way of life/' "progress," "science,"
"liberalism," "reaction," "freedom," "unity," and "appeasement." It
is one of the more melancholy traits of the twentieth century that
such words have been so universally forced to do the work of fact,
logic, and common sense.
b. Not only do certain words of the kind just mentioned include
anything we happen to like or to dislike; in addition, they may in-
clude a considerable number of imprecisely defined ideas. Thus,
few people would object to the statement, "Our freedom must be
preserved." But whom does the word "our" refer to? Does it refer
to convicted criminals, to labor unions, to millionaire industrialists,
to middle-class American citizens? And what does "freedom" mean
freedom to murder, freedom to take other people's property,
freedom to say what we wish when we wish (even to crying "Fire!"
in a crowded theatre), freedom from taxes, freedom from poverty,
freedom from foreign oppression or political oppression at home,
freedom to deprive other people of freedom or what? Many (per-
haps most) other abstract terms are equally unprecise and all-in-
clusive. We may write fervently of "beauty"; but the term itself is
only a generalization referring to specific beautiful things. "Beauty"
does not exist separate from beautiful things. "Truth" does not exist
either; only true statements exist. "Righteousness" does not exist;
only righteous persons and righteous actions exist. When we use
such terms, we should remember what they include their specific
and concrete manifestations. To use them in any other way is
illogical.
c. Sometimes a statement may contain no such vague word, but
may include so much as to be fundamentally fallacious. Someone
writes: "I like children." Does he mean that he likes all children
even the ones who are impertinent, disobedient, loud, stupid, and
malicious? Someone writes: "As a teacher, he is a failure." The state-
Argumentation
ment is broad. Did the man teach nothing, or nobody, at any time?
Someone writes: "That administration was socialistic." Even if we
know the precise meaning of "administration" and "socialistic," can
we say that everything that administration did was socialistic? Did
it do nothing merely negative, not socialistic or anti-socialistic, or
perhaps actually capitalistic? These are examples of statements
that are unprecise and illogical because they include too much.
The writer of argument is to look for them in other people's work,
and to avoid them in his own.
7. FALLACIES OF CONFUSION. Some fallacies are due to thinking
that actually misunderstands or ignores the subject. These fallacies
may be wilfully perpetrated by dishonest people in order to cloud
an issue, or they may be innocently deceitful.
a. A common fallacy of confusion results from the writer's ignor-
ing the question. Every teacher is familiar with this sort of thing.
He puts the problem: "Compare Swift and Addison as satirists."
Half the students taking the examination will at once begin writing
down everything they know about Swift and Addison dates, life,
character, names of chief works; they will ignore the real question.
Or a politician may be asked what he intends to do about higher
taxes; and he may answer by saying that he has never approved of
higher taxes than are necessary, thinks that the present administra-
tion has wasted tax money, and believes that greater economy in
government could save the people's money. But he has never said
whether or not he will fight actively against higher taxes.
b. Much like ignoring the question is argument beside the point.
A student fails to make a passing grade in a course. "But I was sick
for five weeks," he says, "and could not attend lectures or hand in
the daily assignments." That may be true, and the professor may
feel very sorry; but the fact remains that the student did not hand
in his work or know enough about the course to pass his examina-
tions. He is answering questions that nobody asked him; he is argu-
ing beside the point.
c. A subtle fallacy is that of assuming a truth which involves
the point at issue. For example, a sincere and earnest old minister
once advertised that, in his next sermon, he would prove from
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historical evidence that Jesus arose from the dead. But in the sermon
the only evidence he educed was a series of references to passages
in the New Testament. He assumed that the New Testament is
historically sound, though that is exactly the point at which doubters
would have taken issue with him. Another speaker, this time a
politician, tried to prove that he was a fit person for office because
his policies were in accord with those of Thomas Jefferson. He
assumed that Jeffersonian policies were wise for all occasions, though
that is exactly what doubters might not grant.
These two instances involve an inference which has not been
justified inductively. Often the inference is made subtly in the
use of vague or ambiguous words. "Why should a business man
waste his time with literature?" "The Presidents reactionary policies
should be discouraged by the voters." "The radical notions of the
Senator from Wisconsin will not mislead this august body." Each
of these italicized words or phrases assumes as true that which, if
it really were true, would necessitate no further argument. ( In pass-
ing, it should be noted that another name for this kind of fallacy is
"begging the question/')
d. A somewhat uncommon fallacy of confusion is that due to
argument in a circle. Here the writer assumes something is true,
reaches a conclusion on the basis of that assumption, and then
doubles back to prove the original assumption on the strength of
the conclusion just reached. An illustration will clarify. Lincoln once
remarked, "God must have loved the common people, for He made
so many of them." The implied assumption here is that whatever
God has created in numbers, He loves. He has created a large num-
ber of common people. Therefore He must love the common people.
And the fact that He loves them has made Him create them in large
numbers. Another illustration: The Victorian Age, surveying its
miserable and wicked industrial population, argued thus: God pun-
ishes the wicked by making them miserable. These people are miser-
able. Therefore God must have punished them. And the fact that
God has punished them shows that they are wicked.
e. The fallacy of improper classification (see Section 3 of Chap-
ter X) may result from an incomplete classification or from a non-
Argumentation $33
unified basis of classification. The former is the more common.
Here a writer sets out to classify a set of items, but does not include
all possible classifications. "The nations of Europe are monarchistic,
democratic, republican, or communistic/' At the present writing,
this classification does not take account of the Spanish and Portu-
guese governments. More dangerous than this mere incomplete
series is the classification that reduces a problem to an "either or"
basis. "It will either rain or shine" but it may do neither; it may
snow. "France will go either democratic or communistic" but she
may do neither; she may go fascist. Only very cautiously may a
writer venture to commit himself to absolute alternatives; most of
the time there is a third possibility or item that he has not con-
sidered.
Classification on a non-unified basis is uncommon. But when
someone declares, "All voters may be divided into three classes:
the stupid, the self-seeking, and the patriotic," he is obviously iising
a confused basis of classification. The three categories are not mu-
tually exclusive.
f. Very different is the fallacy which substitutes humor, emotion,
or prejudice for logic and fact. It is always easy to get a laugh at
somebody else's expense, especially in addressing a crowd. But it is
a cheap device. An honest person will not trade fact and logic for
laughter, and listeners, even though they laugh in public, will not
be convinced when they go home and think about the matter in
private. Appeals to emotion are more effective and more permanent.
Indeed, emotions (such as compassion, indignation against oppres-
sion, a sense of justice, and gratitude) are greater and finer than
all the fact and logic in the world. Nevertheless, appeals to emotion
must not be confused with fact and logic. In the first chapter of
this book a passage was quoted in which Macaulay answered with
sound fact and logic those who would forgive the sins of Charles I
on mere emotional grounds. And in our own time America witnessed
an occasion in which emotion was substituted for fact and logic.
It was when General MacArthur returned from Japan. The policies
which he advocated were involved and specialized; very few people
in America understood the fundamental issues, or had any right to
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have an opinion on the matter. Yet admiration for the man by some,
and dislike by others, made all America choose sides noisily and
acrimoniously. Emotion was being substituted for fact and logic.
Appeals to prejudice are very similar. They make our local preju-
dices (for the South, New England, our own state, our city, our
college, our team) blind us to fact and logic. Or it may be our na-
tional prejudices ("Right or wrong, my country"), or our racial
prejudices (German, Jewish, Negro, Latin), or even our own tiny
personal prejudices ( against certain foods, red-headed people, black-
headed people, people who speak with a broad 0, people who part
their hair in the middle) we are all likely to be victimized by
theje prejudices. But, in the name of fact and logic, we must com-
bat them by recognizing them in ourselves and in others.
8. FALLACIES OF THE CAUSE-AND-EFFECT RELATIONSHIP. Some of
the most difficult kinds of fallacies to recognize, and to fall into,
involve arguments from cause to effect, or from effect back to cause.
In a loose sense, all argument, all logic, involves the cause-and-effect
relationship. When we understand this relationship, we understand
the basis of all argument.
a. We often make fallacies when we infer that a certain cause
will produce only certain effects. Exposing these fallacies is diffi-
cult, for no one can read the future. Any action of ours, however
well considered, may produce tremendous effects for which we never
bargained. Most writers, however, are guilty of excluding from con-
sideration the possible effects which may result in addition to those
desired. Yet every cause is like a two-edged sword; it works both
ways. It has a certain effect, and also the opposite of that effect.
Thus the hope of becoming a member of Phi Beta Kappa encourages
students to work hard in their courses, and yet it also encourages
them to take easy courses in order to make good grades. A writer
interested in exposing fallacies in the cause-to-effect argument can
usually do no better than to study other possible effects his opponent
has failed to include in the argument.
b. Fallacies in an argument from effect back to cause are easier
to detect. Perhaps the most deceiving of them is the post hoc, ergo
propter hoc ( after this, and therefore because of this ) fallacy. Since
Argumentation 35
an effect usually follows a cause, many people are led to think that
any fact that invariably follows another is an effect of that other.
For example, we have an ailment, are treated by a doctor, and get
well. We think the doctor cured us. Yet the doctors themselves say
that ninety per cent of their patients would recover successfully
without medical attention of any kind. Or we elect a man to office;
certain things happen in the country; and the man is defeated at
his next candidacy on the strength of the things which have occurred
even though he is in no way responsible for them. Post hoc, ergo
propter hoc, reason the voters. They forget that Monday always
follows Sunday, but that Monday, nevertheless, is not an effect of
Sunday. They forget to include in their reasoning other possible
causes besides the immediately preceding event.
c. The opposite kind of fallacy is that in which a cause is assigned
for a condition, though the condition existed before the cause as-
signed. People often say, for example, that the "modern" move-
ment in American poetry was a result of the First World War. As a
matter of fact, however, the movement began in 1912 and 1913,
before the outbreak of war. The critics have failed to include that
fact.
d. Sometimes we mistake an effect for a cause. We say that an
instructor gives a bad grade because he dislikes a student; but
perhaps the instructor dislikes the student because the latter has
made a bad grade. Or we say that city politics are corrupt because of
a certain mayor; but perhaps that mayor obtained office because
city politics are corrupt.
e. In much the same way, two effects of the same cause, or dif-
ferent causes, may be taken for a cause and an effect. I build a
house on a vacant block, and immediately someone else builds a
house on the same block. Is the first fact a cause, and the latter an
effect? Perhaps not; perhaps we both build because times are pros-
perous. Or hot weather comes, and the wheat ripens. Is the former
a cause, and the latter an effect? Perhaps not; perhaps the first is
due to the northward movement of the sun, and the second to the
age of the wheat. If we argue otherwise, we are failing to include in
our discussion two important causes.
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L The last fallacy we shall consider in studying arguments from
effect back to cause is the fallacy of mistaking for a sole cause that
which is only an influence. "Governor X was elected because I con-
tributed one hundred dollars to his campaign fund." The sum con-
tributed was only an influence, not a sole cause. Fallacies in real
argument are not often so simple as the one just given. But existence
is so complex that every effect usually has more than one cause. Ac-
cordingly, a writer wishing to refute an argument which tries to
show the cause of a certain effect can nearly always do so by finding
another influence which operated at the same time to help produce
the effect.
9. FALLACIES OF EVIDENCE. Sometimes a writer errs by admitting
as evidence that which is really inadequate or unreliable evidence.
He states as true that which is not the truth, or else not the whole
truth. "The utility interests have contributed ten thousand dollars to
the campaign fund of my opponent," shouts a candidate. That
sounds bad but is it true? "The President has delivered the coun-
try into the hands of a visionary bureaucracy," shouts a Congress-
man. That is enough to condemn the President but is it true? "Mr.
X. is a very wealthy man," says the gossip. "To my certain knowl-
edge, he has fifty thousand dollars in cash in the bank." This last
may be true, but is it the whole truth? Perhaps Mr. X. owes a hun-
dred thousand dollars. Unsound reasoning is not nearly so common
as the use of unsound evidence.
As we have seen, we may use two kinds of evidence: that from
authority and that from experience.
a. Before venturing to use evidence from authority, we should ask
ourselves three questions:
Has the authority had the opportunity to know the truth?
Has he the desire to tell the truth?
Has he ability to tell the truth?
Suppose, for example, that we are trying to find out from a states-
man something about today's European politics. We ask at once,
Has he been to Europe recently? If so, did he stay long enough and
travel widely enough to find out anything of importance? Did he
talk to Europeans who really knew the situation? Has he had access
Argumentation 837
to reliable documents? In other words, Has he had the opportunity
to find out the truth? If not, we must not use him as an authority.
Even if he has had the opportunity, is he reliable? Is there some
motive of self-interest, fear, patriotism, or prejudice which may make
him desire to conceal some of the truth or distort it all? Perhaps the
statesman is a Senator who desires reelection. Will he not be tempted
to play up alarming theories in order to have a sensational campaign
topic? Or perhaps he is writing a series of articles for a rabidly
jingoistic chain of newspapers. Will he not be tempted to bow to
the policy of the papers, and make European affairs look as danger-
ous as possible? Or perhaps he has a large interest in a factory that
makes tanks. Will he not be tempted to be as alarming as possible in
order that his factory may continue making tanks uninterruptedly?
Any number of such considerations may influence our authority to
try to obscure the real truth, and so make his evidence invalid.
But even if he has had the opportunity to know the truth, and if
he honestly desires to tell the truth, he may still be an untrustworthy
authority. He may be incompetent. He may not understand Euro-
pean politics, European psychology, or European economics. He
may not know how class reacts to class, how historical alliances and
animosities influence national politics in spite of logic, how much
weight the opinion of the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury car-
ries in men's minds, how much credence is to be given to French
newspapers, and so on. In a word, though he has the best intentions
in the world, he may not have the ability to tell the truth. He is not
a good authority.
b. The other kind of evidence that taken from our own experi-
ence or observation involves a similar questioning of our own op-
portunity, desire, and ability to tell the truth. We say that seeing is
believing. But we see smoke vanish into nothingness and yet we do
not actually believe that it has become nothing: we know that if we
had the opportunity we could catch the smoke by means of certain
apparatus, collect its particles, and even weigh it. We see a magician
take money out of the air and yet we do not believe that he does
it: we know that we merely have not the ability to see through his
trickery. And we see a close friend of ours do a questionable deed
88 Creative Writing
and yet we do not believe he is wicked: we "simply don't want to
believe anything bad about him." Seeing, then, is not believing un-
less we, like the authority we have questioned, have the opportunity,
the ability, and the desire to see straight.
EXERCISES
1. The Fallacy of Rationalization.
a. Read Chapters 3 and 4 ("Various Kinds of Thinking" and
"Rationalizing") of James Harvey Robinson's The Mind in the
Making.
b. Analyze your views on the following subjects; then set down
in one column some possible reasons that may be causing you to
rationalize about your views, and in another column some reasons
that are obviously not the result of rationalizing:
Your political views campus, municipal, state, national,
and international.
Your religious views including your church membership,
your ideas of immortality, and your conception of God.
Your ethical views such as your ideas about cheating on
examinations, stealing melons from a farmer, stealing money
from a bank, slipping into a show without paying, sex, kill-
ing a fellow citizen, killing in war.
Your social views such as your ideas about capital pun-
ishment, old age pensions, inheritance taxes, income taxes,
cosmetics, the broad a, boy-crazy girls, girl-crazy boys.
Your personal views about your ancestors, your immedi-
ate family, your roommate, the person who sits beside you
in some class, your professors.
2. Fallacies Due to Diction.
a. Tell what the following words would mean to the persons
indicated:
complex to an ordinary reader and to a psychologist.
progressive to an ordinary reader and to an educator.
mechanism to an ordinary reader and to a philosopher.
maturation to an ordinary reader and to a biologist.
old-fashioned to an ordinary reader and to a heavy
drinker.
density to a physicist and to an electrical engineer.
basilisk to a classical scholar and to a herpetologist.
Argumentation 839
escape to a prisoner and to a botanist.
book-maker to a publisher and to a gambler.
young to a person of twenty and to a person of seventy.
American to a citizen of the United States and to a
citizen of Brazil.
socialist to most Englishmen and to most Americans.
private enterprise to a communist and to an American
businessman.
God to an Italian peasant and to a Unitarian minister.
b. Point out fallacies of diction in the following sentences:
Taking this English course should be of great value to you.
He is an undesirable alien.
You cannot afford to say what you really believe.
What Senator Blank thinks is of no importance.
We shall be much better off without him.
His arguments are quite unconvincing.
The human race is being weakened because modern civili-
zation permits the unfit to survive.
You ought not to listen to such trash.
The government's grandiose ideals have ended in socialistic
bureaucracy.
Shall we pay taxes to support those ne'er-do-wells who
will not make a living for themselves?
The loud-lowing senator from the Deep South called a
press conference.
The witness told some sensational yarn of no consequence*
When asked a direct question, the Secretary of State mum-
bled an answer of sorts.
The President admitted under questioning that at least a
billion dollars annually was being spent on production of
atomic bombs.
Congressman Jones lolled expansively in a plush, flower-
filled hotel suite far from home.
3. Inference.
a. Describe the kind of evidence you would use in expositions
on each of the following topics:
Chinese porcelains.
Tennyson's poetic art.
The honor system (or the proctor system) at your college,
Social philosophy in Galsworthy's plays.
What a man (or a woman) loses by going to college.
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b. Which of the following generalizations would require many
bits of evidence for proof? A single bit of evidence? A comparison?
Crows are black.
Dogs naturally hate cats.
Shakespeare is more read in Europe than is Dante.
A newly discovered species of cedar will remain green all
winter.
Hitler is dead.
Small babies are not conscious.
Make a list of your opinions about certain individuals, people in
general, politics, religion, etc. Discuss the evidence upon which
you arrived at these opinions.
c. Invent syllogisms to fit the following conclusions:
Mary loves John.
Times will get better.
Times will get worse.
Women should take an interest in politics.
Public school teachers deserve higher salaries.
Professors should be more "human."
4-8. Exposing Fallacies.
Analyze and name the fallacies in the following statements:
He should be elected President, for he is a thoroughly
honest man.
He would make a great President, for he was a great
general.
I am sure he has no will power, for he is a confirmed
drunkard.
Art should enter into the life of everyone, for it is beauti-
ful and interesting.
I know he is intelligent, for I never saw a more intellectual
forehead.
A radio is not worth having; it is merely an advertising
mechanism.
Gentlemen of the Jury: How could anyone believe that
this sweet and gentle little lady would murder her husband?
No one should obey prohibition laws; they are foolish re-
strictions on personal liberty.
As I thought my job was too good to last.
You must know Greek and Latin in order to be cultured.
Argumentation
You are so much interested in writing that you should
become an author.
He will continue on his course because he is too stupid to
change.
He must love her; for if he didn't, he wouldn't send her
flowers every week.
I can never win at cards, for I'm just not lucky.
This must be an oak tree; it has lobate leaves like an oak
tree's.
This book is certain to be clever; Bernard Shaw wrote it.
He must be a good man, for he is very kind to his mother.
My wife and my daughter are afraid of mice, and so I
suppose all women are afraid of mice.
People never have flown at the rate of five hundred miles
per hour, and they never will.
I had a bad accident once in driving a car, and so I sup-
pose I am incapable of driving.
There's no use in your doing the outside reading; you can
pass the course without it.
This bird is blue; it must be a bluebird.
The veterinary said this medicine would cure dogs of
rouiidworms; so it will probably cure them of tapeworms as
well.
I left my raincoat at home and sure enough! it rained.
I'll take my raincoat next time.
He is such a good scholar that I know he will make a
good teacher.
He is a grouch; the only time I ever spoke to him he nearly
bit my head off.
My friend Rip van Winkle over here in the corner hasn't
yet got the birds' nests out of his hair; don't pay any atten-
tion to what he says.
There is gold in sea-water. It only waits for the enterpris-
ing chemist to extract it and grow rich.
One of the good things the Soviets have accomplished is
the abolition of serfdom in Russia.
Ducks have acquired the habit of living on or near water
because their webbed feet and squat bodies make them
awkward on land.
My mother used to hang a little bag of asafoetida around
my neck to protect me from diphtheria. And since I never
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took diphtheria, the old precaution was probably of some
value, after all.
You should be ashamed of reading a book like that! What
would your father say if he were alive?
Both the United States and Mexico would benefit ma-
terially if the United States would take over Mexico and
give it a stable and honest government administered from
Washington. Consequently, we ought to absorb Mexico.
President Wilson tried to negotiate the Versailles Treaty
personally, and so the Treaty was a failure as far as Amer-
ica was concerned.
I argued with the professor too much, 'and so he failed me
in the course.
Cats are so destructive of birds that it would pay us to do
away with cats entirely.
Cats like to hunt at night because they can see in the dark.
People are hoarding their money, and that's why times are
so hard.
He is taking almost every course I am taking in college.
I think he is just imitating me.
9. Fallacies of Evidence.
Would the individuals in the following situations be trustworthy
authorities? Why?
A man whose home was robbed while he was out of town.
A charwoman who felt sure the blood she mopped up was
human blood.
A child of four telling what time of day an event occurred.
A private soldier telling the strategy of a great battle in
which he participated.
A student giving a bad report of a course in which he had
failed.
The same student giving a good report of the course.
A woman suing for divorce, and testifying about her hus-
band's character.
A mother testifying in court about her son's character.
A district attorney trying to convict the son.
A defense attorney trying to have him acquitted.
An alienist telling about the mental condition of the son.
A scientist telling about a cure for cancer he thinks he has
discovered.
Another scientist criticizing the first one's work.
Argumentation
Ourselves explaining how we made a large sum of money.
Ourselves explaining how a surgeon operated on us.
FINDING SUBJECTS FOR ARGUMENTATION
Some of the best places to find subjects for argumentation
and debate are the contemporary journals and magazines.
Compare, for example, the editorials of your local newspaper
with the articles and editorials in magazines like the Nation
and the New Republic. Look in the American Mercury for
articles expressing controversial points of view on popular
subjects. Examine College English for articles on teaching
methods, and ideas about what college English courses
should contain. Most of the scientific, political, and economic
magazines contain articles and expressions of opinion about
which there is certain to be controversy. And several weekly
radio forums deal with controversial topics habitually. Any
of these sources will suggest many subjects for argument.
Perhaps it would be well to classify certain fields of
thought, and let each student work in the field that interests
him most. Examples follow:
Economic:
Can the government establish a stable economy (without
inflations or depressions) by fixing wages, prices, and work-
ing hours?
Does the safety of the American form of government de-
mand a stable economy?
Would most people in America have a higher standard of
living than at present if America had a stable economy?
Should a super-planning commission (something like the
Supreme Court) with almost unlimited economic powers be
set up as a means of forestalling economic depression and in-
flation?
Political:
Would labor (or farmers, or business men, or salaried
workers) be economically better off under the Republican
(or Democratic) administration of your state (or the federal
government, or your local government)?
Should all law-enforcing powers against criminals be taken
Creative Writing
from the states and handed over to the Federal Bureau of
Investigation?
Would law enforcement be more just and certain if twelve
impartial federal judges, instead of twelve jurors, tried all
cases?
Would government function more smoothly and efficiently
if all county offices were abolished?
Social:
Should divorce be automatically granted, after a waiting
period of ninety days, at the request of either husband or
wife?
Should architectural plans for all proposed buildings be
passed on by a committee of artists and architects who
would study the plans not only for their individual artistic
merit, but also for their fitness to the locality where the build-
ing is to be erected?
Should local committees of parents and educators be set
up to pass on the suitability for children of all motion pictures
shown in local theatres?
Should old-age pensions be paid to every person over
sixty -five (or seventy) regardless of proved need?
Educational:
Should the government pay small salaries to all needy
young men and women who are capable of profiting by a
college education, and who will go to college?
Do women's colleges serve any educational function that
cannot be served by coeducational colleges?
Should all college students be required to take a course in
trigonometry (or calculus, or chemistry, or physics, or Ameri-
can history)?
Should college teachers be compelled to sign a loyalty
oath?
Literary:
Did the seventeenth Earl of Oxford (Edward DeVere)
write the plays attributed to Shakespeare?
Do the novels of D. H. Lawrence show that he was a
fascist?
What is immorality in literature? (Or is some specified
literary work immoral?)
Argumentation
Was Hamlet's tragedy due to the fact that he was a de-
layer who could not make up his mind?
Historical and Biographical:
Was King Arthur a real person?
Did Byron have an affair with his half-sister?
Did the Incas invade America from Polynesia?
Did the government of Chiang Kai-shek succumb to the
communists because it lacked supplies and funds that could
have been furnished by the United States?
Reflective:
Do fixed moral standards result in unhealthy and unhappy
mental states for the majority of people?
Does laughter arise from a feeling of triumph or superi-
ority?
Is it "a crime to believe on insufficient evidence"?
Does the state exist for the benefit of its citizens of today or
its citizens of tomorrow?
CHAPTER XII
Writing the Exposition
1. THE SUBJECT. People often wonder why so many poor articles
and bad books are published. Their number is due to the popularity
and interestingness of their subjects. A bad exposition on a vital sub-
ject will find ten publishers willing to buy it before a good exposition
on an uninteresting subject will find one. Young writers often fail to
realize this fact. They write excellent essays on "The Mountains and
the Sea as Vacation Resorts," "How I Spent My Vacation," "Types
of Razors," "English Ceramics in the Eighteenth Century," "The
Typical Landlady," "Why Television Has Developed so Rapidly,"
and similar subjects. But who wishes to read them? No one but some
patient professor ever hopeful of discovering somewhere in the
weekly wilderness of such subjects at least one paper which shows
that its writer has been willing to attack a vital problem.
A man's reach should exceed his grasp and a student's efforts
should exceed his ability to achieve. Young people perceive the
elemental issues of life far more vividly and feel them more keenly
than do their elders. If the young people would only write sincerely
about these issues, if they would only have the courage to grapple
with the problems presented to them as growing men and women
problems of authority, religion, sex, immortality, marriage, family
relations, fear of life, ambition, dreams, hopes, despairs, and all the
rest of them if students would only write about such problems in-
stead of "How to Build a Boat" and "The Typical Sophomore," they
w<3uld produce something worth reading. But they won't. They will
continue to attack small problems and decide unimportant issues
until the boat is rotten and the sophomore has grandchildren.
2. AIMS. When a writer has chosen his subject, he should ask
himself what his aims are in writing about it. First, he must decide
246
Writing the Exposition
what his expository purpose is whether to give mere information,
or to interpret facts, or to try to change the readers point of view.
If, for example, the subject involved the conservation of wild life
in America, the writer could merely catalogue facts about the steps
being taken by the government to conserve wild life. Or he could
go on to interpret: He could say that certain measures are unsatis-
factory or insufficient, that the prospects of new and better measures
are remote, and that though certain results have been achieved,
much remains to be done. Or, finally, he could devote his work to at-
tempting to influence his readers to take conservation more seriously
and work for it more energetically. What his purpose is will deter-
mine what the exposition is to be.
Next, the writer should determine the kind of readers whom he
wishes to reach. 1 The type of readers he expects will often determine
the purpose of his work. Thus ( in the example just given ) a report
of a government official to a superior interested in wild-life conserva-
tion would be purely factual and statistical. A report of the president
of a conservation league to the members of the league would be
interpretative. An article by the same president in a magazine of
general circulation would endeavor to change the public's point of
view toward conservation.
Even when the purpose of the exposition is fixed, a writer must
know what type of readers he will have. For example, a surgeon
trying to explain to a patient the nature of a prospective operation
would use simple terms, comforting reassurances, and careful analy-
sis of the results which might occur if the operation were not per-
formed. But if the same surgeon were trying to explain the same
operation to a group of other surgeons, he would use technical terms,
would convert the personal reassurances into mortality statistics,
and would probably omit as well known the analysis of what might
happen if the operation were not performed. The type of readers ad-
dressed may determine, then, the purpose, the language, the persua-
sive elements ( see Section 7 below ) , and the nature of the facts pre-
sented in the exposition.
1 Determining this often involves a consideration of the organ of publication.
Practically all magazines, newspapers, and publishing houses have certain edito-
rial policies which a writer must know and conform to if he expects publication.
Creative Writing
Finally, the writer must decide how long his exposition will proba-
bly be. Only when he has done so can he select his material in-
telligently and organize his exposition with due regard for the laws
of proportion. A newspaper paragraph, a magazine article, and a
book on, say, wild-life conservation would require altogether dif-
ferent materials, different structures, and different methods of ap-
proach. Many a young author, inexperienced in handling papers of
much length, writes the first half of his term paper in great detail,
and then, discovering that he will have neither time nor space to
finish the paper in the same detail, will hurry to his conclusion in a
manner quite inconsistent with his early leisureliness. And writers
even less skillful will do the opposite that is, hurry through the first
half of the paper, discover that at such a rate they will finish the
work before filling the required number of pages, and then conclude
with a wealth of unnecessary detail and deliberate padding. A well-
planned paper commits neither of these errors. It is consistent and
well balanced throughout.
3. THE TITLE. Specialized exposition requires only a descriptive
title in order to attract the readers for whom the exposition was
written. Titles such as the following automatically select their own
*eaders:
"The Physiology of Digestion"
"Mural Painting in America"
"Milton's Use of Du Bartas"
"Carlyle and German Thought"
"Color in Advertising"
"The Lewis and Clark Expedition"
But general exposition is different. In these days of intense com-
petition when a thousand titles a week in newspapers, magazines,
and bookstores clamor for the average reader's attention, every
writer of general exposition must find attractive titles for his works
if he expects to be read. Some articles and some books, indeed, sell
and are read for no other reason than that they have irresistible titles.
Little Man, What Now? is no better book than it should be, but with
such a title its popularity was assured even before it was written.
Writing the Exposition
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and The Hard-Boiled Virgin are older
novels with irresistible titles. Beer's The Mauve Decade, Bowers's
The Tragic Era, and Allen's Only Yesterday are expository works
with almost equally effective titles. Seeing them in a bookstore, al-
most any browsing reader would pick them up and look into them
which is the most important step in the sale of a book.
Just what makes a title attractive it is difficult to say. But a few
general principles hold true:
a. The subject itself may be so interesting or unusual that the ex-
position requires no other advertisement in its title than a descrip-
tion of its contents. Such descriptive titles are these: "Probabilities of
War in Europe" (Atlantic), "The Assassination of McKinley"
(American Mercury), "Safer Childbirth with Less Pain" (Parents'
Magazine), and "How to Marry Well" (House and Garden). A spe-
cial form of such titles is that which proclaims superlatives, unusual
magnitudes, or sensational ideas. Examples are: 20,000 Years in Sing
Sing (by Lewis E. Lawes), "$50,000,000 Can't Be Wrong" (Satur-
day Review of Literature), "Money by the Ton" (Asia), and "In
Search of the Smallest Feathered Creatures" (National Geographic).
b. Often the diction of a title may catch the reader's eye irrespec-
tive of the subject indicated. Devices which thus attract attention are
the following:
( 1 ) Alliteration is often effective in fixing the reader's wandering
glance. Examples of alliterative titles are these: "The Reputation of
Rommel" (Yale Review), "Feats of Our Flying Foresters" (Ameri-
can Forests ) , "The Rise of the Rubber Railroad" ( Fortune ) , "Pros-
pects for Peace" (Harpers), and "The Great Galilean" (Atlantic).
(2) Antithetical ideas expressed in titles attract attention. Exam-
ples are these: "Ladies and Lawlessness," "Less Money and More
Life" (both from Harpers), "New Armies for Old" (Current His-
tory), "The Awful English of England," and "Insurance that Doesn't
Insure" (both from American Mercury).
(3) Incongruous words have much the same rather startling ef-
fect that antithetical ideas have, and tempt the reader's curiosity to
delve further into the exposition. "Fra Angelico and the Cabin Pas-
850 Creative Writing
senger" (Harper's), "Socrates Up to Date" (Atlantic), and "A Phi-
losophy of Pith-Balls" (Atlantic) are good examples of such incon-
gruousness.
(4) Parodies of well-known sayings attract attention, though
often, it is true, the attention goes no further than the title. Exam-
ples are these: "The Trap that Jack Built" (Colliers), "Nature Says
It with Flowers" (American Forests), "For Whom the Bell Clanks"
( Atlantic ) , "Trial by Ice" ( Life ) .
(5) Made-up or unusual words, such as those in the following
titles, may pique the reader's curiosity and lure him to read the ex-
position: "Shirahama" (Atlantic), "'Cheapies' Threaten Chain
Sto-es" (Forbes), "Capeadores of Wall Street" (Atlantic), "Punnet
sive Pundigrion" (Atlantic), and "Bonanzas in Blue-Collar Jobs"
( U.S. News and World Report).
(6) Single-noun titles also excite curiosity. Yet unless the word
used can touch a live spot in most readers, this sort of title is not
satisfactory. In the following group, probably only the first and the
last titles listed can meet the test: "Professor" (Atlantic), "Rio
Grande" (American Mercury), "Conclusions" (Atlantic), "Paradise"
(American Mercury), and "Earthquake" (Scribners). Variations
of this kind of title are single nouns preceded by an article ( like The
Jungle by Upton Sinclair), and single nouns followed by a noun in
apposition ( like "Lincoln the Lover" in the Atlantic ) .
(7) More common and, perhaps, less impressive is the single-
noun-and-single-adjective title such as "The American Way," "The
Larger Agnosticism," "Our Lawless Heritage" (all three in the At-
lantic), "Hospital Night," "Burnt Offering," "Half -Told Tales," and
"This Hard-Boiled Era" (all in Harpers). Titles like these have little
to recommend them unless they include some unusual word or idea
like the last one given, or excite curiosity like the two which precede
the last.
c. Many titles draw attention by means of their grammatical
forms.
(1) Titles beginning with How, Why, Where, What, The Story
of, The Future of, etc., appeal to every reader's desire to enlarge
his information: "How Not to Buy" (Consumers' Research), "Why
Writing the Exposition %51
the Business Man Fails in Politics" (Nation's Business), "Why Lit-
erature Declines" (Atlantic), "How Charles Dickens Wrote His
Books" (Harpers), "What a Man Loses by Going to College" (Sat-
urday Evening Post), and "How to Stay a Bachelor" (This Week).
( 2 ) Very closely related is the title stated as a question. In order
that the question be effective, however, it must be pertinent to some
universally interesting topic. In the following list of titles probably
only the first and the two last meet this requirement: "What About
Mixed Marriages?" (Woman s Home Companion), "How Good Are
Your Schools?" ( American ), "Why Hold Back the Children?"
(Harper's), and "Is Sleep a Vicious Habit?" (Harper's).
(3) Titles containing an active verb suggest a narrative, and are
therefore more likely to encourage a reader than are mere static
words. Note the hint of action or story in each of the following titles:
"Emerging from One Other Depression" (Catholic World), "My
Brother Commits Suicide" (New Republic), "Building a Futile
Navy" (Atlantic), "Justice Comes too Late" (This Week), and
"America Discovers Itself" (Vogue).
(4) Of late years, what we may call and-titles have been popu-
lar. They are titles containing two words or phrases joined by and.
They have no special virtue unless the two members so joined are
alliterative, antithetical, paradoxical, or incongruous. Examples fol-
low: "Sound and Sense" (Vogue), "America and the Russian Mar-
ket" ( Current History ) , "Juries and Justice" ( Atlantic ) , "Logic and
the Ladies" (Harpers), "The Cat and the Pain Killer" ( Wall Street
Journal), and "Four Boys and a Piano" (Life).
( 5 ) The last sort of title we shall mention is that which contains
a prepositional phrase. For some reason, such phrases run trippingly
on the tongue and stick in the memory. Examples are these: "From
Chicago to the Sea" (Atlantic), "Planks without Platforms" (Atlan-
tic), "Miracles of Healing" (Ladies Home Journal), "Elected for
Oblivion" (Life), "Czar of Song" (New Yorker), "Man with a Mis-
sion" (Time), and "Australia on the March" (Fortune).
4. THE INTRODUCTION. Though short expositions seldom require
formal introductions, long expositions would often lack clarity with-
out some preliminary explanations. The following scheme is custom-
Creative Writing
arily used in the introductions to formal debates and arguments. It is
presented here as a suggestion of what may be done, rather than as
a rule stating what must be done. The writer of an argument will
probably follow the scheme rather closely; the writer of an informal
exposition will use only such parts of it as seem to him suitable to the
occasion. The latter writer, furthermore, may not use the parts in
the order here given, and may place before any of them ( at the very
beginning of the exposition) some device for catching the reader's
attention.
I. The immediate reason for the present discussion.
II. The origin and history of the question.
III. The definition of terms.
IV. The exclusion of
A. Irrelevant matter.
B. Waived matter.
C. Admitted matter.
V. The statement of the main contentions made by opponents.
VI. The statement of the actual issues to be discussed.
5. THE ARRANGEMENT OF IDEAS. The arrangement of ideas in an
exposition practically always follows one of the methods named be-
low. Since these methods are discussed in most freshman textbooks
of composition, they will be only mentioned here:
a. The chronological order.
b. The order of procedure from simple to complex.
c. The order of procedure from known to unknown.
d. The order of procedure from particular to general (the in-
ductive order).
e. The order of procedure from general to particular (the
deductive order).
f. The order of climax.
g. The order of alternation when two things are being com-
pared.
h. The order of simple enumeration.
The order to be adopted is often determined by the method and
the type of the exposition. But not always. For example, suppose a
student is trying to explain to his parents what his curriculum will
be during his four years of college. The type of exposition will be
Writing the Exposition 53
"Abstract Description" and the method will be "Descriptive/* But
the student may arrange his details chronologically by telling what
courses he will take in each year from the first to the last. He may
arrange them by proceeding from the simple to the complex that
is, he may begin by explaining that his courses will all be either
majors or minors, and then go on to explain more and more com-
plicated details about these majors and minors. He may proceed
from the known to the unknown by saying something like this: "As
you know, I am specializing in Biology. You know, too, that Biology
is based on Physics, Chemistry, and Geology. Consequently, I must
take courses in those subjects. In addition, I must take French and
German to help me read what foreign biologists have done. And
finally, the administration requires me to take certain other subjects
which I shall now tell you about" and so on. He may proceed from
the particular to the general by listing his courses, and then adding,
"You see, I am specializing in science, and in Biology most of all."
He may proceed from the general to the particular by saying the
same thing, and then proceeding to list his courses. He may proceed
in the order of climax by listing his courses in the order of their im-
portance in relation to Biology. And he may content himself with a
simple enumeration of the courses he will take in his four years at
college.
The writer should decide on some arrangement he will give to
his ideas, and then stick to that arrangement. Making this decision
requires initiative and originality on his part; it does not come natu-
rally as a result of the subject.
6. DIVISION. Division in exposition is of two types logical and
mechanical. Good exposition consists of a few major thought-groups,
under each of which are collected subordinate thoughts. These
groups are distinct from one another, and yet are linked together by
means of transitional devices and logical relation. If they are too few
in number ( say two or three to every five thousand words ) , they re-
quire too long-continued concentration by the reader, and therefore
weary him. If they are too many (say ten or twelve to every five
thousand words), they confuse him with their diversity and make
him lose sight of the main objective of the exposition. Of these two
sins of division, however, the latter is more forgivable. Indeed, it is
854 Creative Writing
a sin only in informal exposition where the writer attempts to secure
an easy and flowing continuity. In more formal exposition, where
ideas in a series may be plainly numbered or lettered (as in this
book) the use of many thought-groups is quite permissible. The
mechanical numbering or lettering makes for clarity even though it
does detract from beauty of style.
This numbering or lettering of the different parts of an exposition
is the other means of division mentioned above. If done with the
slightest comprehension of the thought-groupings, mechanical divi-
sion of this sort makes the exposition easy to 'follow and to un-
derstand. It appears commonly and elaborately in formal technical
discussions, and it appears on a limited scale even in informal exposi-
tions. In the latter type of writing divisions are customarily indicated
by Roman numerals. These have a double effect: They indicate a
division of thought, and at the same time they break up the solid
printed page in such a way as to rest the reader's eye and promise
him relief from concentration too prolonged. The writer of exposi-
tion should nearly always avail himself of these devices for helping
and encouraging the reader. They are tricks, but they are useful and
legitimate.
7. PERSUASION. Writers seldom address sympathetic and enthu-
siastic readers. Usually they must overcome a dead inertia, and
sometimes they must refute directly hostile opinions. For the accom-
plishment of either of these purposes clear logic is not always suf-
ficient. It must be supplemented by persuasion.
Conviction involves intellectual approbation; persuasion involves
emotional approbation. Most people will resist the former unless
conquered by the latter, and many people do not require the former
if they have been conquered by the latter. No writer can afford,
therefore, to neglect the art of persuasion. It usually requires of him
a double ability: to make the reader like him, and to make the reader
like his arguments.
a. Being likable is an art that cannot be taught in textbooks; but
perhaps a writer can be taught to make the best use of whatever
likable traits he happens to possess. A few hints, stated as brief com-
mandments, follow:
Writing the Exposition $55
( 1 ) Work toward persuasion in the first part of your exposition,
and toward conviction in the latter part.
( 2 ) Keep an air of sincerity and frankness throughout; but unless
the occasion or the subject is unusually grave or sad, confine your
most solemn earnestness to the latter part of the exposition.
(3) In the average exposition written for general reading, begin
with some bit of humor, wit, whimsicality, or cleverness. Such a
beginning need not, and usually should not, be a funny story. It may
be only an idea expressed playfully, an amusing remark incident
to the occasion, a witty paradox, or some other such bid for the
reader's good humor. People are more tolerant when they are in a
good humor than when they are solemn.
(4) Make some not-too-serious comment on your own lack of
qualifications to write about the subject you are explaining. The
average reader does not like for the average writer to take himself
too seriously.
( 5 ) Flatter the reader by praising some custom, habit of thought,
point of view, or opinion which you know he holds. Appeal to his
sense of local or racial pride. Pay tribute to his ancestors, to his in-
dividual enterprise, to his known efficiency and goodness of heart.
(6) Concede many virtues to those who believe differently from
you, and even explain those virtues at some length if you intend to
be particularly aggressive later on.
(7) Unless you know your readers will be unintelligent, never,
never resort to vituperation, passion, and name-calling. Do not forget
to be a gentleman. Nothing is quite so persuasive as a self-possessed,
well-mannered gentleman. Remember Chesterfield's epigram: "A
man's own good breeding is his best security against other people's
ill manners."
(8) Do not write down to the reader. Act as if you were address-
ing a person of equal or superior intelligence. When technical details
that the reader could not possibly know much about are to be ex-
plained, be modest and casual rather than ostentatious. Act as if you
thought that the reader might be as well off, after all, without know-
ing such details.
b. The writer's next problem is to make the reader like the in-
Creative Writing
formation given and the opinions expressed in the exposition. Here
are a few suggestions worth considering:
( 1 ) Relate your information and opinions to the higher impulses
and emotions of the reader. Nearly all people, though not very in-
telligent, are fundamentally good and well meaning. If you can show
how your ideas may satisfy their higher impulses, or if you can use
your ideas to stir their higher emotions, you can persuade your read-
ers to believe almost anything.
( 2 ) Try to show how your reader's acceptance of your ideas will
help him as an individual physically, intellectually, or materially
or how it will help his children, his community, or his nation.
(3) As much as possible refer to authorities whom you know
your reader views favorably. And when you must use authorities of
whom you know the reader is suspicious, admit that he has some
right to his suspicions, but that, for this once at least, you can show
that the authorities used are reliable. If you must refute a well-liked
authority, appear to do so with regret, and at the same time pay
tribute to the authority in a way that will partly compensate for
your showing that he has been wrong.
(4) Use a simple, direct style; have a clear and easily followed
organization in the exposition; refer to familiar instances that "come
home to men's bosoms" rather than to remote or specialized in-
stances.
(5) Finally, if you know your readers are hostile, try to appeal
to their sense of fairness. Try to show them that even people in the
wrong (like you) deserve a hearing from fair-minded readers. But
do not try to do so by pleading the justice of your cause. Instead,
point out that you are depending on the reader's customary broad-
mindedness, and are venturing to impose on his well-known charity
and tolerance. It is not sufficient that the reader believe you have a
right to be heard; he must be made to consider himself magnani-
mous for listening to you.
8. SOME STRATAGEMS. In these days when there is such a tremen-
dous amount of competition for both reader attention and editorial
attention, a writer must sometimes resort to stratagems to get him-
self read. This is not as it should be but it is a fact. Few things in
Writing the Exposition 857
the world are as they should be. In the following paragraphs certain
means of attracting attention are discussed, even though they may
be superfluous to the actual writing of good exposition.
a. As was said previously, the title may attract attention because
it suggests information that certain people, or all people, are auto-
matically interested in. Thus the title (by Isabel Mann) "The First
Recorded Production of a Shakespearean Play in Stratford-upon-
Avon" automatically selects and attracts certain readers. On the
other hand, there are expositions that the writer would like for every-
one to read, that are, indeed, written to attract as many readers as
possible. Such expositions must have titles that tempt all readers.
To fabricate these titles the writer must resort to all the stratagems
he knows for constructing attractive titles. Some of these stratagems
have been mentioned in Section 3 of this chapter.
b. The beginning, the first sentence or two, must be attractive.
It may be phrased so as to shock, amuse, or perplex the reader. It
may appeal to his self-interest, contradict a statement usually ac-
cepted as true, state a bold generalization or paradox, or make some
other sort of startling observation. Lamb begins an essay, "I have no
ear." A student begins an essay, "Life is never what it seems to be.
It is usually worse." Laura Spencer Portor begins an essay, "I have
a definite, decided taste in taxi drivers/' Will Durant begins an essay
on Schopenhauer's philosophy, "Consider, first, the absurdity of the
desire for material goods." John Fischer begins an article in Harpers,
"Fifteen years ago I knew a nice revolutionist named Peter." Fred
Schwed, Jr., begins an essay in the same magazine, "I was born, so
far as this chronicle is concerned, at a large and famous boys' prep
school at the age of sixteen." It should be added that Mr. Schwed
then appends a footnote, saying that someone has just told him that
Bernard Shaw's Back to Methuselah had everyone born at the age of
seventeen; Mr. Schwed comments sadly: "In this business it is harder
to be original than you might think." All these beginnings are meant
to startle the reader a bit, to catch his attention, and to tempt him
to go on reading. A somewhat modern variation, noted in about one-
third of the popular articles today, is to quote somebody directly or
indirectly in the first one or two sentences. Quotation implies char-
%58 Creative Writing
acter and drama, and ( as was pointed out in the first chapter of this
book) is always likely to seem more interesting than mere straight
writing by the author. Even if the quotation, and the character who
allegedly said it in the first place, must be made up out of whole
cloth, quotation is an excellent stratagem for creating a good begin-
ning.
Sometimes very serious and important articles on serious and im-
portant topics at serious and important occasions, or by serious and
important people, do not need beginnings of the kind just discussed.
They need only to present in a clear way some serious and impor-
tant problem to be solved. Huxley begins an essay, "What is edu-
cation? Above all things, what is our ideal of a thoroughly liberal
education?" Woodrow Wilson begins an essay, "What is liberty?" Wil-
liam James begins an essay, "Of what use is college training?" Alfred
Russel Wallace begins an essay, "The majority of persons, if asked
what were the uses of dust, would reply that they did not know it
had any." All these beginnings set a problem before the reader in
such a way that he is tempted to read further to find out the solution
of the problem.
A third kind of beginning is that which states the theme or princi-
pal idea of the exposition. Professor Alexander Meiklejohn begins
an essay, "One of the greatest dangers of the American college is
that it will be drawn into the common life, that it will conform to
that life, will take the common standards as its own." Benedetto
Croce begins an essay, "I will say at once, in the simplest manner,
that art is vision or intuition'' Henri Bergson begins a chapter, "Com-
edy begins with what might be called a growing callousness to social
life.'' Beginnings such as these are clear (a recommendation of no
mean worth ) ; they give the reader a vigorous intellectual jolt; they
put him at once on his intellectual mettle; they make him feel that
he is plunging directly into the heart of the subject; they give him
confidence that this writer really has something to say.
Finally, the beginning sentences may outline the ideas to be dis-
cussed in the exposition. Lamb begins an essay, "The human species
... is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and
the men who lend." Arthur Twining Hadley begins an essay, "The
Writing the Exposition
three faults most commonly charged against our national character
today are materialism, lawlessness, and unwarranted self-assertion/'
Louis Untermeyer begins an essay, "The poetry produced in America
in the last decade has been distinguished by three outstanding fea-
tures. These three dominating qualities are ... its vigor, its vivid-
ness, and its variety/' Beginnings of this kind are closely related to
those which state the theme, and possess the same kinds of advan-
tages in attracting the reader's attention.
c. Writing in The Review of English Studies (XVI: 116-121;
1940), the late R. B. McKerrow, editor, advised writers of research
papers to give their articles a "boost" This boost, which should come
early in the paper, should magnify or explain the tremendous im-
portance of the discoveries or arguments revealed in the paper, tell
what a revolution they will cause in thinking, tell how new and
superior they are, and never reveal the slightest doubt that the
writer considers that all the work he has spent on his research could
not possibly have been spent to better advantage. In a way, Mr.
McKerrow is being facetious. But he adds seriously, "In the first
place, unless you yourself believe in what you are doing, you will
certainly not do good work, and secondly, if your reader suspects
for a moment that you do not set the very highest value on your
work yourself, he will set no value on it at all."
d. Mr. McKerrow adds that a paper should end with a "crow*
that is, a summary or restatement of the main point of the paper,
and a reassertion of the writer's conviction that he has given "com-
plete and unshakeable" proof to back up his very important facts or
ideas.
e. Finally, the writer of exposition (even more than any other
kind of writer) should learn to apply the "Fundamental Principles"
outlined in the first chapter of this book.
EXERCISES
1. The Subject.
Make a list of the personal problems (both specific and general)
which have troubled you most during the last year. By making use
of the "sources of exposition" mentioned in Chapter VIII above, de-
Creative Writing
velop at least one of these problems into an exposition of considerable
length. Hand your list in to the instructor. When he has examined all
lists, let him classify the problems of the class members, and tell what
kinds of problems are of most general interest.
2. Aims.
Turn back to the topics given under the exercises for "Definition"
(Section 1, Division III, in Chapter IX) and try to show how three
different purposes could lead to the development of three altogether
different expositions from each topic.
Show how your method of developing each topic would be changed
if you were writing to be read by (a) a radical labor agitator; (b) a
conservative Vermont farmer; (c) a liberal-minded, thoughtful col-
lege professor.
Tell how your methods of exposition would differ if you developed
each topic in (a) a paragraph, (b) two pages, and (c) ten pages.
3. The Title.
Try to find attractive titles for subjects mentioned in the exercises
for the preceding chapter. Consider as many of the subjects as your
instructor thinks necessary.
4. The Introduction.
Outline formal introductions for six of the expositions mentioned at
the end of the exercises for Chapter XI.
5. The Arrangement of Ideas.
Set down more or less at random all the items of information you
have about one of the following subjects:
Student self-government on your campus.
Student organizations on your campus.
The administration of your college.
Show how these items could be successively arranged in all orders
(except the order of alternation) mentioned in Section 5 above.
6. Division.
Refer again to the topics mentioned in the exercises for "Defini-
tion" in a preceding chapter. Show how long, informal expositions
(5000 words) on five of these topics might be divided.
7. Persuasion.
Refer again to the topics just mentioned. Suppose your exposition
on each of the topics is addressed to readers whose ways of thought
are completely hostile to the subject and what you believe about it.
Writing the Exposition 61
Outline methods of persuasion you would use in writing each exposi-
tion. Write a complete persuasive exposition on one of the topics.
What methods of persuasion would you use in the following exposi-
tions:
A plea for governmental control of railroads before a group of
railroad owners; a group of railroad employees; a group of Congress-
men; a group of average citizens.
A plea for reforestation before a group of farmers; a group of city-
dwellers; a group of sportsmen; a group of lumbermen.
A plea before Southerners for social equality for the Negro.
A plea for liberal education as opposed to professional education
before a group of poor parents; before a group of engineering
students; before a group of business men being asked to contribute
sums to a liberal college; before a group of working men being asked
to vote funds for a liberal college.
8. Some Stratagems.
Bring to class several types of magazines (scholarly, scientific,
popular of various kinds) and examine the articles in them to dis-
cover the different stratagems the authors have used (or could have
used) to make their work more tempting to the reader.
PART THREE
The Writing of Fiction
CHAPTER XIII
The Nature of Fiction
I. Imagination and Fiction
1. WHAT is FICTION? Essentially, fiction is narrative and all
narrative tells about changes taking place in time. Fiction is not
necessarily untrue; historical fiction may be quite true, perhaps
more fully true than history itself.
A second characteristic of fiction is that its chief concern is not
merely with to hat happens, but with what happens to somebody. It
is narrative that centers around a personality.
Finally, most good fiction is descriptive. Poor writers believe that
merely telling a story, without trying to make the reader see the
action, constitutes good fiction. Pick up any of the magazines of
confession, and notice what an overwhelming percentage of each of
its stories consists of the simple recounting of incidents without a
particle of imagination to enliven the account. Here is an example:
My friend went inside to phone a few more men in his effort to get
an escort for me, and I waited outside with his "date." When he came out,
I knew that he had failed. I figured there was no use in my spoiling his
time for the evening; so I told the two to go ahead without me. I said
that I wasn't feeling very well, and that I thought I would go home and
get some rest. He was very gallant and polite, but finally I persuaded him
to take me to my rooming house, where he left me with a promise to call
the next night.
Compare this bare account of happenings with a truly imaginative
bit of writing from Stevenson:
All three peered covertly at the gamester. He did not seem to be en-
joying his luck. His mouth was a little to a side; one nostril nearly shut,
and the other much inflated. The black dog was on his back, as people
say, in terrifying nursery metaphor; and he breathed hard under the
gruesome burden.
265
%66 Creative Writing
"He looks as if he could knife him," whispered Tabary, with round eyes.
The monk shuddered, and turned his face and spread his open hands
to the red embers. It was the cold that thus affected Dom Nicholas, and
not any excess of moral sensibility.
"Come now," said Villon "about this ballade. How does it run so
far?" And beating time with his hand, he read it aloud to Tabary. 1
The first of these passages merely tells what happened, whereas the
second makes us see what happened. The first creates no images; the
second is filled with images is literally imaginative.
Fiction, then, is of two sorts: that which may be called non-
imaginative, and that which should be called imaginative. In this
book we shall disregard the first sort completely, and shall concern
ourselves with the second alone. For our purposes, fiction shall be
imaginative narrative.
2. IMAGINATIVE NARRATIVE. Short stories, novels, and dramas are
all alike in being scenic; that is, each of them is made up of a series
of scenes imaginatively presented with short passages of necessary
exposition sandwiched here and there between scenes. When the
fiction writer has learned this elementary law, and has learned how
to abide by it in his own work, half his task toward writing good
fiction is done.
An examination of any well-written piece of fiction will reveal
that it is made up of scenes sometimes one or two, as in some of
Poe's stories; sometimes several, as in dramas; and sometimes a
great many, as in novels and most short stories.
The intervals between scenes are passed over, as was suggested
above, with the least possible ado sometimes with the mere skip-
ping of a line, sometimes with a row of asterisks, sometimes with a
new chapter heading, sometimes with a few transitional phrases
(such as, "On the following day . . ."; "It was three months later
that . . ."; "He met her on the street a week later . . ."; and so on),
and sometimes with a brief expository passage conveying necessary
information.
3. DRAMA. In this book we shall not consider drama separately
from other fiction. Drama differs from other kinds of fiction only in
1 From "A Lodging for the Night," in New Arabian Nights. Used by permis-
sion of Charles Scribner's Sons.
The Nature of Fiction 867
the limitations imposed by the physical restrictions of the stage and
the theater. The principal limitations are these:
a. Intervals between scenes are indicated in the program in the
hands of the audience.
b. Necessary exposition must appear either in the program or in
the dialogue of the actors on the stage.
c. The number of scenes must be limited so that scene-shifting
will not be too frequent or too costly, and so that the total number
of scenes will not hold audiences in their seats for more than two or
three hours.
d. The nature of the scenes is determined by the physical restric-
tions of the stage; for example, an airplane battle could not be pre-
sented on the stage, nor could psychological changes which do not
affect the actions of a character, nor could stories which hinge on
meaningful looks passed between characters, nor could very short
scenes which would not be worth the trouble of scene-shifting, nor
could stories in which animals or very small children act or think,
and so on.
Reason and experience assist a writer in determining whether a
contemplated story may be good dramatic material; but once a
writer satisfies the requirements of dramatic presentation, the meth-
ods of play-writing are the same as those of story-writing or novel-
writing. All consist of a series of scenes imaginatively presented.
II. Truth in Fiction
1. HISTORICAL TRUTH AND POETIC TRUTH. It is not uncommon for
a critic to tell some young writer that a story written by the latter
is improbable only to be answered by the triumphant author, "But
it really happened!" The fact that something really happened does
not make it credible, probable, or suitable for good fiction. Indeed,
just the opposite is almost always true: incidents or stories from
real life usually make the poorest sort of art. The fact that a thing
has really happened is almost proof positive that no writer should
attempt to record it as fiction.
Anything is possible; accidents do happen; rich uncles do die and
268 Creative Writing
leave a million; lightning does strike villains meditating the ruin of
worthy folk. But as Aristotle avers, the business of the writer is not
to record the merely possible but, rather, to record the probable.
Historic truth is one thing; poetic truth another. Scott's famous ex-
ample of killing off six people ( one of them by lightning ) in a final
chapter so that the hero may live happily ever afterward is not an
example to be emulated. It might have happened, but it probably
would not.
Narrative having historical truth tells what actually did happen;
narrative having poetic truth tells what would probably have hap-
pened under a given set of circumstances. It is the latter sort of
narrative that is the sole concern of the fiction writer (unless he
happens to be a writer of historical fiction). Fiction writing is like
playing a game of cards. The writer decides whether he is going to
play bridge, poker, whist, hearts, or anything else; he decides the
conditions of play. He is not compelled to play any one of the games
instead of some other. But once he has decided on the conditions,
he cannot change the rules in the middle of the game. In the middle
of a bridge game he cannot suddenly decide that deuces outweigh
aces, or that clubs are worth more than spades. He must play out
the game according to the conditions selected.
Likewise, if a fiction writer decides that his story is to be about
colonial America, he must not bring in a helicopter to help his hero
rescue the fair damsel from the redskins. To do so would make the
writer guilty of what William Archer calls improbability on the
external plane. If the hero succeeds in rescuing the damsel by some
more plausible device than a helicopter in colonial America, and if
he is fleeing with her along a mountain trail, with the redskins in
close pursuit, and if an avalanche suddenly descends and erases the
redskins, the writer is guilty of creating an improbable event. It is
not impossible that such a timely landslide would occur, but it is
excessively improbable. Finally, if the bloodthirsty redskins should
actually capture the hero and heroine, tie them to the stake for
burning, and then suddenly decide to release them after all, and let
them go free with the tribe's gifts and blessing, the writer portray-
ing such a happy conversion is guilty of psychological improbability.
The Nature of Fiction 869
It is possible that Indian character would change in such a manner,
but it is not probable.
These three types of improbability are the ones the fiction writer
must ever guard against.
2. IMPROBABILITY IN FICTION. In spite of what has just been said,
improbability may, under certain circumstances, have a place in
fiction.
a. It is an old aphorism that readers will strain at a gnat of im-
probability in the course of a story, but swallow a camel at the very
beginning. In other words, the reader will go along with the writer,
play almost any kind of game that the writer wishes under what-
ever rules or conditions the writer specifies; but once the game is
started, the reader expects it to be played according to the an-
nounced rules and conditions. Thus, the reader might balk at having
a story end with a couple unexpectedly inheriting a fortune; but he
would readily accept a story that began with a couple just having
inherited a fortune. The reader might balk at a story that ended
with an unannounced call from a radio station telling a woman she
had just been selected by lot to make an all-expenses-paid trip to
Paris; but the reader would accept such a condition readily enough
as the preliminary condition of a story. Indeed, an improbable situa-
tion existing at the beginning of a story furnishes one of the best of
all starting points for a story.
b. Improbability is acceptable in a story when the story is im-
possible. For example, fantasies such as Andersen's fairy tales,
Alice in Wonderland, the Arabian Nights, and so on, which are
fundamentally impossible, may be improbable without shocking
the reader. That is, miracles may happen in them, sudden rescues
may come, animals may learn to speak, storm and lightning may
destroy the old witch, or anything else not specifically bargained for
at the beginning may occur.
c. Improbability is acceptable when the main charm of the story
lies in its improbabilities. Many of the comedies and farces one sees
on stage or screen contain this type of improbability. There are hair-
breadth escapes, incredible encounters, sensational accidents, as-
tonishing strokes of luck, and vast misunderstandings. For example,
870 Creative Writing
the whole story of W. S. Gilbert's The Pirates of Penzance turns on
the fact that someone was told to apprentice a boy to a "pilot" and
was thought to say "pirate" instead. The situation is utterly im-
probable, yet that is its chief charm.
3. CHANCE AND COINCIDENCE. Technically, chance may be defined
as an unexpected and simultaneous happening of two related events;
and coincidence may be defined in the same way except that three
or more events are involved. Actually, however, the distinction is
of hardly more than academic interest. It is true that chance and
coincidence happen in real life. Many people say, therefore, that
chance and coincidence are justifiable in fiction. But fiction, it must
be remembered, is not a picture of what could happen in life, but
of what would probably happen under a given set of conditions.
Chance plays a part in all lives; but few people regulate their lives
according to chance. Most people make plans according to what
will probably happen. Nevertheless, as with improbability ( of which
chance and coincidence are only one aspect), chance and coin-
cidence may sometimes have a place in fiction.
a. Long ago Aristotle mentioned as permissible in tragedy that
kind of chance that seems to imply design. And he told the story of
the murderer who, happening to lean against the statue of the man
he had murdered, was himself killed by the statue unexpectedly
tumbling down and crushing him. The accident seems to imply
design; and Aristotle doubtless approved it because of the old Greek
belief in destiny or fate existing superior to the gods themselves.
A similarly intense belief in destiny forms the basis of that neat,
almost tricky, unity of O. Henry's stories. The O. Henry ending is
perfectly satisfying, not because it is a surprise, but because ( when
we take time to reflect) it is the only ending which, under the cir-
cumstances, could possibly have happened. His "Double-Dyed De-
ceiver" is of exactly the pattern of Aristotle's illustration mentioned
above. A young man kills another young man; the murderer becomes
a refugee from justice; through one chance after another he finally
becomes the foster son of the parents of the young man he had slain.
Here is destiny working itself out. The ending is a surprise; but
under the circumstances ( if we only believe in the inevitable right-
ness of things) it is the one ending possible.
The Nature of Fiction
The same thing is true of another story of O. Henry's, "Roads of
Destiny." A weak young man leaving home comes to a branching
of the road. He takes one branch, has certain adventures, and comes
by his death in a certain way. Then the story is recommenced: he
takes the other branch, has certain other adventures, and comes by
his death in the same way. And then the story is recommenced: he
goes back home, has certain adventures, and comes by his death
in the same way. The idea behind the story is that a man of a certain
character will come eventually to an inevitable end, no matter what
he does in the meantime that a man's destiny lies within himself.
This is an advancement over the old Greek idea of an external des-
tiny, but the effect in fiction is the same.
b. Destiny and chance are close kin. Perhaps they are the same
thing. In any event, a story may justifiably use chance or coincidence
when the author wishes to show that chance ( or destiny ) governs
men's lives. Many of Thomas Hardy's novels have coincidence piled
on coincidence because the author wishes to show that mankind is
the plaything of the Immanent Will, and is not the master of his fate.
In a similar way, Joseph Conrad writes an entire novel, Chance, to
show that man's fate is determined by chance alone, not by anything
sane or rational in the universe or in his own nature.
c. Finally, chance is justifiable in fiction under certain technical
circumstances. When chance complicates the difficulties of the
author and of his characters instead of solving them, chance is for-
givable in a story. If, for example, a character has made careful
plans to escape from a prison-camp through a tunnel he has dug
under the fence, and if a small dog chasing a rat uncovers the tun-
nel and reveals it to the guards, the reader will accept the chance;
it makes matters more difficult for the author and for his character.
But if, just as the prisoner is about to escape and a guard is coming
to investigate a suspicious noise, the dog runs up and bites the
guard's leg, and distracts his attention while the hero escapes, the
reader will balk; the chance has made matters easier for the writer
and for his character.
4. SURPRISE. Despite popular opinion to the contrary, outright
surprise in fiction is seldom used nowadays by great writers. A plot
built up with any reasonable regard to probability, to natural law,
Creative Writing
to consistency of character, to philosophic necessity, to cause and
effect, can usually surprise only in its externals, not in the plot itself.
Real surprise is prima facie evidence of poor structure. For this
reason, the deus ex machina the unforeseen and accidental force
appearing at the critical moment to decide the issue of the action
the strawberry mark on the left shoulder the dying of a rich uncle
the appearance of the hero just in the nick of time to save the
heroine from the clutches of the villain this is bad art.
Even worse (and dreadfully amateurish) is the story that leads
the reader to believe through several pages 'that a certain thing is
happening, and then brings the reader up abruptly at the end with
the revelation that something altogether different has been happen-
ing. For example, a freshman wrote that a burly, ill-dressed man
approached the young thing as she stood trembling in a corner; her
hair was falling in her eyes, she was quaking with terror; her breath
came in great gasps; she saw a rope in the man's hands; she could
see the hard look in his eyes; yet she could not move or cry out.
The man reached out for her, seized the hair at the back of her
head, tied the rope fast about her neck and led her over to a
stall where he bridled and saddled her! Once in a lifetime, perhaps,
one may write such a story, but no more than that. It is deliberate
deception, outright lying. It can hardly be forgiven.
Any surprise in a story must be a surprise in method. "Give the
reader the ending he expects in a way that he doesn't expect/' It is
ancient advice, but is good. Perhaps it would be still better if it
were written: Never give a reader an ending that he has had no
reason to expect, but always bring about the ending in an original
and unexpected way. Actually, the original and unexpected ending
may sometimes border on chance or coincidence. But the chance
or coincidence is not vital in the story itself; it involves only a method
of ending, not the real ending. For example, the ending of Hamlet
is destined to be tragic from the beginning; it is impossible that it
could have avoided being tragic for all the figures most concerned.
But the actual methods by which their deaths are brought about at
the end involve accidentally exchanged swords and a poisoned cup
(accidentally?) used by the Queen. Only the method here is origi-
The Nature of Fiction
nal and unexpected. Tragedy would have arrived somehow, in any
event. What would have been inexcusable would have been a happy
ending to the play with all the villains deciding to reform, Hamlet
forgiving everyone, Ophelia proved to have been not drowned after
all, her and Hamlet marrying, and everybody living happily ever
afterward. Shakespeare does have certain plays ending in such a
way, it is true; but nobody thinks they are the greater for such end-
ings. These particular plays are great in spite of their plots, not be-
cause of them.
Stevenson says that if a story is going to end tragically, it ought to
begin ending tragically with its very first sentence. At any rate, we
do not want characters to undergo sudden conversions; we do not
want characters to act "out of character"; we do not want to be
prepared through four-fifths of a story for one kind of ending, and
then get the opposite kind; we do not want the laws of nature and
of probability suspended. If our hero is to rescue the heroine, he
must do it in an original and unexpected way; if our hero is to be
elected to Congress, he must get himself elected in some original
and unexpected way; if our hero is to marry the heiress, he must
win her hand in some original and unexpected way.
In conclusion, two special "don't's" must be expressed:
Don't have a character escape from his difficulties by waking up
and finding that it has all been a dream.
Don't kill off a character at the end just because the story has to
be finished somehow. Whenever you feel inclined to kill off a char-
acter, be suspicious of yourself. Don't kill him unless there are
excellent reasons for doing so besides the necessity of bringing the
story to an end.
EXERCISES
I. IMAGINATION AND FICTION
1. What Is Fiction?
Take a few sentences or a paragraph from some history or historical
article, and convert it into imaginative writing. (For your present
purposes, historical accuracy is unnecessary.)
Creative Writing
2. Imaginative Narrative.
Into what scenes would you crystallize the actions outlined in the
three following paragraphs?
A barber longs for the romance of faraway places and high ad-
venture; he joins the Marine Corps; and then he finds himself
stationed permanently at a military post in Massachusetts as the
company barber.
An unsuccessful poet commits suicide because of his failure to
find a publisher for his work. As a result of his suicide, public in-
terest is aroused; and a book of the suicide's poetry is published
and is successful.
A young wife gradually loses faith in her husband's omniscience,
but finds that she loves him just as well after she has lost her faith
in him as she did before.
3. Drama.
Could any of the stories you have just worked with be presented
dramatically?
Read a few stories in current magazines or in one of the annual
collections of the year's best short stories or in the works of one of
the older writers and try to convert one or two of the stories into
short dramas. Perhaps the campus dramatic organization will be
interested in presenting your play.
II. TRUTH IN FICTION
1. Historical Truth and Poetic Truth.
Which of the following situations are impossible? Which are merely
improbable? Which of the three types of improbability is involved?
A band of gorillas attacks a hunter in the Amazon jungle.
A villainous agent of some foreign government is preparing to
murder the hero on a ship in mid- Atlantic; but a storm washes him
overboard.
The same villainous agent talks with his intended victim, and
decides to leave the service of the foreign country and become an
American citizen.
A freshman in his first term is elected president of your col-
lege's student association.
The sixty-year-old Professor of Bible Studies announces that he
has become an atheist.
A young woman goes backstage to meet a world-famous pianist;
they fall in love immediately and elope that night.
A literary critic who has been asked to speak at a memorial
The Nature of Fiction 275
service honoring a just-dead novelist, makes a speech in which he
declares that the novelist was a very bad writer.
A gang of criminals kidnaps a little girl; but her sweet nature
and religious admonitions persuade the criminals to return her to
her home, submit to arrest, and join the church.
A cat learns to talk, and makes some indiscreet revelations about
what he has seen of the morals and manners of certain human
beings.
A beggar in a city at night fears that he will freeze to death be-
fore morning; but he finds a five-dollar bill on the sidewalk and
rents a room for the night.
A Negro ardently supports the theory of "white supremacy."
Every time a man has a difficult problem to solve, the ghost of
his grandfather appears and advises him.
A seventeen-year-old girl is in love with a seventy-year-old man.
A man has a pet grasshopper which flies to him whenever he
goes to the door and whistles.
A man invests money in a Florida orange orchard; but a severe
freeze in April kills all his trees.
2. Improbability in Fiction.
In your opinion, which of the improbabilities and impossibilities
mentioned in the preceding exercise might be used in a good story?
Why, and under what conditions?
3. Chance and Coincidence.
Make a list of all the coincidences that have happened to you or
to acquaintances of yours. Which of these might seem to imply de-
sign? Which might be used to show that chance (or destiny) deter-
mines men's lives? Which made your life, or the life of your ac-
quaintances, more difficult or complicated? If you cannot recall any
original coincidences, use the following:
A medical student finds that he is dissecting the body of a man
whom he once knew.
A man misses a train, which is wrecked, with many casualties, a
few hours later.
A man's shoelaces become untied on the street; he stoops to tie
them, and finds an expensive diamond ring lodged in a sidewalk
crack right at his toe.
A man in a sawmill is called to the telephone; just as he steps
out, a large band saw breaks and swishes through the air where the
man had been standing an instant before.
Creative Writing
The same man has just stepped over to the side to get a drink of
water when the saw breaks.
A* Surprise.
Think up surprising, yet probable, endings for stories about the
following:
A man who, the doctors say, can live only two weeks.
A public official who is dishonest.
A pair of lovers who are angry with each other.
An escaped convict.
A student competing for a literary prize. -
A woman on trial for shooting and wounding her husband.
A pair of lovers whose different religions seem to prevent their
marriage.
An inquisitive person who reads, in the "personal" column of the
paper, about arrangements for a meeting between a man and a
woman, and who goes to their place of meeting.
CHAPTER XIV
Types of Fiction
Critics have classified fiction into many types and according to many
bases of classification. But for the practical purposes of the creative
writer it may be sufficient for us to classify fiction into two groups
the story and the novel. A story is short (from 500 words up to
20,000 words); a novel is long (from 60,000 words up to 300,000
words or more ) . For works of intermediate length ( 30,000 words to
50,000 words ) the term novella is frequently used; but we can afford
to disregard this type here, and treat the novella as only a long story
or a short novel. Except for differences in length, there seems to be
no valid distinction between the story and the novel.
I. The Story
1. BROAD TYPES. Somerset Maugham has pointed out that the
modern short story has developed into two branches that may well
be named after the two masters who established them Maupassant
and Chekhov.
a. The Maupassantian Story has a plot and often a tricky ending.
It is the stuff out of which a newspaper story might be made an
action that is unusual, but not surprising like a theft, a drowning,
a desertion, a murder. Most stories of this type could be analyzed
according to the old Aristotelian formula of "beginning, middle, and
end." By way of illustration, Maupassant has a story about a man
who picked a quarrel with another man and challenged him to a
duel, who then became mortally afraid, and who finally committed
suicide to avoid facing his enemy the next day. Then there is the
other story by Maupassant in which a woman's adored maidservant
turns out to be a man in disguise, a criminal wanted by the police.
And there is the very well-known story by Maupassant in which a
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78 Creative Writing
woman borrows an expensive necklace, loses it, spends many years
paying for it, and then discovers at the end that the necklace she
lost was only paste, after all.
We read these stories for the sake of the plot, the action, the narra-
tive element. Character, if it matters at all in them, matters only as
something that stands for human nature in general, without indi-
viduality. Furthermore, many of the stories could have happened
anywhere at any time; there is little relation between background
and action.
The Maupassantian influence affected Kipling (who added to it
Bret Harte's local-color contribution), and reached a certain kind
of climax in O. Henry. The influence still persists, especially in the
more "popular" magazines designed for readers who expect a story
to be a story, to have action and plot. It is still a respectable, attrac-
tive ( and sometimes lucrative ) field for the young writer.
b. The Chekhovian Story is very different from the Maupassantian;
Katherine Mansfield perfected the Chekhovian story in English; and
a great many modern stories of the "quality" level belong to the
type. These stories have little or no real plot; they may have no
suspense; whatever action occurs in them is of no great interest in
itself that is, it would seldom be considered worthy of space in a
daily newspaper.
These stories deal more with psychological states, or with psy-
chologically peculiar or interesting characters, than with unusual
happenings. If they do record such happenings, they focus attention
on the effect of the happenings on the mind and personality of as
character; the happenings are not recorded for their own sake.
Besides presenting a psychological state, these stories may pre-
sent merely an interesting situation. Thus, a Maupassantian story
might begin or might end with the marriage of a seventeen-year-old
girl to a seventy-year-old man an occurrence that might well be
the subject of a newspaper item. But the Chekhovian story would
merely present the situation as it exists, and reveal, probably by
means of passing thoughts and insignificant daily happenings, the
psychological state of the married couple.
The Chekhovian story tells of the impulses, the inner terrors, the
Types of Fiction 279
unconscious motives, the perversions, the scars left by early influ-
ences, the mind in confusion, the inwardly violent effects of certain
minor events on sensitive personalities, the personality trying to
understand other personalities, or to grapple with the bewildering
problems of modern civilization. And, more often than not, all this
is done, not by actual expository analysis, but by recording small
gestures, looks, tones of voice, scraps of conversation, involuntary
exclamations, tremors of emotion, fleeting images, brief sense im-
pressions. The effort is to render a complete psychological experi-
ence. Of course, the effort is certain to fail. To record everything
that constitutes the psychology of any person for even an hour would
require at least a volume. James Joyce, in Ulysses, tried to render
a complete psychological experience of a mere twenty-four hours,
had to write a very long book to do it, and then did not succeed in
being absolutely complete. Thomas Wolfe tried to do it, wrote
billions of words, and found at last that he could use only a small
part of what he had written. This effort to be true to the complete
consciousness has resulted in what has been called the stream-of-
consciousness type of fiction. The type is extraordinarily important
in modern fiction; and every modern writer who hopes to create
anything more than potboilers ought to practice it to a certain
extent. On the other hand, it cannot possibly tell all. Under the cir-
cumstances, the young writer might do well to remember Schiller's
aphorism: "The artist may be known by what he omits" and to
reconcile himself to omitting much that passes through the con-
sciousness, the subconsciousness, and the unconsciousness of his
characters.
Sometimes the Chekhovian story is not content to reveal a mere
individual situation or a psychological experience; in addition, it
may reveal an underlying social culture that has produced the situa-
tion or the psychological experience. In Chekhov himself, this cul-
tural context is most commonly the Russian peasant's life, his prob-
lems, and the influence of his environment on his personality. In
various American writers (Marquand, Faulkner, Saroyan, for ex-
ample) the cultural context may be the bloodless life of aristocratic
Boston, or the decaying and decadent world of the Old South, or
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the artificial and overstimulated life of wealthy New York, or the
simple virtues of the very low economic classes.
Or sometimes the chief interest may lie in some unusual person-
ality; or in some typical personality (child, old person, teen-ager,
illiterate, immigrant, Negro, college student) not usually under-
stood; or in some latent or concealed conflict within a personality, or
between personalities. Or it may lie in a scene or place which itself
has "personality" or in an insignificant event which has intricate
and manifold meanings to different people or in the revelation of
truths ( usually about human relations ) that have been lying deep-
hidden beneath surface appearances.
The sole function of the Chekhovian story is to reveal.
To be sure, the Chekhovian story may have a plot; it may tell
about sensational events that the daily newspaper would also record.
But plot is not an essential, as in the Maupassantian story. Plot, or
action, may be reduced to a mere time sequence: things that happen
successively in an hour, a day, a week a breakfast of a married
couple; an encounter with a street beggar; a walk in the country;
the few minutes of a wedding; a conversation of a young man and
a young woman who happen to occupy adjoining seats in a train; a
child spending a day with his grandmother; the way an employer's
character is revealed during the first week that his stenographer
works for him.
But though these stories may have little plot, they seldom merely
end in mid air. Their revelations are arranged more or less in the
order of climax; or the end of the story is some especially revealing
or convincing detail, or some new development that verifies the
previous revelation, or some summarizing conclusion reached by a
character, or some odd twist of circumstance, or anything else that
gives a slight lift, novelty, or "whiplash" at the end.
2. SPECIAL TYPES. Short stories may be classified in another way
that is, according to their length and structure.
a. The Short Story is both a general type and a special type. As
a special type it is a fictional narrative that does not belong to any
of the three special types discussed below. As a rule, it covers a
Types of Fiction 81
relatively few days or weeks in the life of a person; and nearly al-
ways it deals with a single climax or crisis in the life of that person.
The novel, in contrast, may sometimes cover the lifetime of a person,
or even several lifetimes; and it deals with a series of climaxes and
crises in the lives of people.
b. The Long Short Story is not so much a paradox as its name
implies. It is merely a fictional narrative that deals with a single
climax or crisis in the life of a person, and that is from about 15,000
words to 25,000 words long. Conrad's "The Secret Sharer/' "Ty-
phoon," and "Heart of Darkness" are well-known examples of the
type.
c. The Short-Story ( with a hyphen ) is one of the oldest and best
recognized types of short fiction. The young writer should remem-
ber, however, that he is under no compulsion to write short-stories
any more than a poet is under compulsion to write sonnets, Or
pastorals, or anything else. As a matter of fact, the short-story has
some very arbitrary restrictions that may make it a dangerous play-
thing for the young writer. It may lead to slavish rule-following,
artificiality, and sterility. On the other hand, it is an interesting form,
and it can be a worth-while exercise.
The ideal short-story (according to the standards set by the
originator of the type, Poe ) is something more than a story which is
short. Instead of attempting to create a multiplicity and variety of
effects, instead of trying to analyze character, instead of presenting a
theme, the short-story attempts to create a single emotional effect,
a single mood in the mind of the reader grief, fear, horror, pity,
mirth, hate. Characters, setting, action emotion displayed, places
described, deeds told about are selected and emphasized only as
they contribute to the single emotional effect.
To accomplish its purpose, the short-story limits itself in every
direction. It deals with moments or hours, not years: in "The Cask of
Amontillado" an hour or two; in "The Pit and the Pendulum" an
afternoon; in "The Masque of the Red Death" an evening. It begins
at the latest possible moment, as close to the climax as possible, and
with as little exposition as possible; and it ends as soon as the effect
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has been made on the reader. It has only one or two important
characters. And the action occurs in the fewest possible places
usually in only one.
Nowadays one hears more about the short-story in critical works
than one sees it in actuality. For though it is neat and effective,
and though any writer may learn from it the value of compression,
it is artificial in an age which has come to respect primitive natural-
ness rather than cultivated artistry. Paradoxically, however, the
short-story's artificiality is its chief asset. Writing it, like writing a
sonnet, is an aesthetic exercise. Its limitations, its strict requirements,
and its singleness of purpose tempt the writer's skill and offer a
challenge to his literary power. At the same time, these definite
standards make it possible for connoisseurs in literature to read
the short-story with a keenly discriminating and appreciative taste.
Accordingly, the form will doubtless persist, much as the sonnet has
persisted, despite all conflicting tendencies.
d. The Short Short-Story is even more restricted and artificial
than the short-story. At its best, the short short-story is only about
1000 words to 2000 words long; it has all the limitations of time,
place, and characters that typify the short-story; and it must end with
a surprise, a sudden change of direction, a "whiplash." This last is
the writer's chief difficulty. Too many writers solve it in a way
mentioned in the previous chapter by deliberately deceiving the
reader, misleading him, lying to him by implication if not in fact
through nineteen-twentieths of the story, and then undeceiving him
at the very end. This sort of thing is inexcusable. The writer must
avoid it, and yet achieve a surprise ending.
II. The Novel
1. BROAD TYPES. Though novels have been classified in many
ways, they may be viewed by the creative writer as belonging to
only two types.
a. The Vertical Novel tries to depict the heights and the depths
of individual human character. It need not be naturalistic in its
details, or even possible; it may be poetic (like Paradise Lost), or
Types of Fiction
allegorical (like Pilgrim's Progress), or fantastic (like some of
CabelTs novels ) . It is a fiction of intensity, not breadth; of emotion,
not truth to the outward appearances of life. Hawthorne's novels
belong to this class; so does much of Faulkner and of Conrad.
Reading this type of fiction, one does not say, "How lifelike!" One
says instead, "How wonderful is the human heart! Of what passions
is it not capable! What can it not suffer! What evil can it not dream!
What grandeur and nobility can it not achieve!"
As a rule, this field of fiction is suited as much to the young writer
as to the old; for the young writer has had intense, profound, and
elevating experiences of his own, if only for a few minutes and he
can transfer these episodes of passion to imagined fictional charac-
ters.
b. The Horizontal Novel, in contrast to the preceding, might al-
most be called panoramic. It is more worldly, less individualistic,
more broad and various, less intense and passionate than the vertical
fiction. It is the wide-angled lens, not the microscope. It deals with
many types of people, many different emotions, many years, and,
if not many places, one place in full detail. It shows human nature
in its many guises; its subject is not the intricacy or the marvel of
the individual personality, but the incredible variety of the human
race at large.
Chaucer belongs to the school of horizontal-fiction writers; so
does Shakespeare in some of his historical and Roman plays; so do
Defoe, Fielding, and Scott; Dickens and Thackeray are the greatest
of the group; Arnold Bennett is, perhaps, the greatest of the twen-
tieth century in England; John Dos Passos is the most outstanding
in modern America; Sinclair Lewis is a member of the group; and
so is Hemingway in For Whom the Bell Tolls, if in nothing else.
To deal with life in its variety and multiplicity, the horizontal-
fiction writer usually needs a plot. "What the devil does the plot
signify, except to bring in fine things?" asked George Villiers. A
plot exists as a scaffold upon which to display the infinite variety of
human nature. Without the plot, the variety would not hang to-
gether. Plot is somewhat under a cloud in the most advanced criti-
cism today. And, to be sure, plot for its own sake, however thrilling,
884 Creative Writing
has implications of naive primitivism. But plot used in horizontal
fiction as a binder for variety and multiplicity is almost necessary
unless the story is to seem quite formless. Of course, some of the
more advanced critics might ask, Why should a story have form?
To which the proper answer is, Why should it not have form? At
any rate, it is noticeable that the writers mentioned above as be-
longing to the horizontal-fiction group are also plot-makers.
The young writer is seldom able to create fiction of the horizontal
type. Usually, he has had no opportunity to learn how various
human nature can be. Accordingly, the field 'belongs, for the most
part, to the older writer.
2. SPECIAL TYPES. For the last two centuries, and more, novels
have been so widely written and so universally read that they have
achieved an almost unclassifiable variety. But the young writer
should be familiar with the names, at least, of certain types even
though these types are not mutually exclusive.
a. The Picaresque Novel, which deals with the adventures of a
none-too-moral character ( picaro is Spanish for "rogue" ) , consists of
a series of adventures that befall an individual trying to make his
fortune by his wits. The adventures seldom add up to a unified plot,
but are only a disconnected series interesting in themselves individ-
ually, but not as a whole, or as a unit. Defoe and Smollett are the
two principal picaresque novelists in English.
b. The Character Study is less concerned with the adventures that
happen to an imagined character than with the character himself.
The interest in this kind of novel lies in the intricacies a character
reveals within himself, in his growth and development, in his mental
and emotional reactions to the things that happen to him and in
the world about him. Richardson was the first English novelist who
wrote this type of novel exclusively; some of the greatest novelists
(Jane Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot, Thomas Hardy,
Thomas Mann, Henry James ) have written mostly character studies
and the type is still one of the most popular both with writers
and with readers.
c. The Historical Novel came into its own with Sir Walter Scott,
was popular during the first half of the nineteenth century, ceased to
Types of Fiction 285
be popular in America during most of the later nineteenth century,
had a brief revival in the years about 1900, dropped back again,
was revived in the 1920's, and has been extraordinarily popular ever
since. The interest here is usually in a historical period rather than in
character. Nevertheless, some of the modern historical novels have
shown as much concern for character as the character study, and
for thrilling adventures as the picaresque novel.
d. Biographical Novels are related to the historical; but here the
emphasis is on a historical character rather than on a period as a
whole. This type of novel has been written chiefly in the twentieth
century (as a companion to the modern personalized biography),
and is still very popular. Very likely the young writer will not wish
to try his hand at either the historical or the biographical novel until
he is older. They require an amount of research that the young
writer is not usually prepared to give.
e. Romantic Novels may be historical, and frequently are. "Ro-
mantic" is a hard term to define; but it implies remoteness ( in time
or in place or in both) and beauty. The romantic novel deals with
faraway, strange events; and it pictures them idealistically, glamor-
ously, seductively, beautifully "in a light that never was on sea
or land." Stevenson's Treasure Island is romantic; so is Cabell's
Jurgen; so is McCutcheon's Graustark; so is Tarkington's Monsieur
Beaucaire. Lately, in the motion pictures, certain classes, remote
because of their wealth from the popular audience, are pictured
romantically; and the "Western" is almost always romantic. Unless
the young writer has an exceptionally fanciful, beauty-loving, and
creative mind, he should not attempt romantic writing. It usually
turns out to be merely very bad escape writing.
f. The Naturalistic Novel is the opposite of the romantic. By
means of many details it pictures, or tries to picture, life as it really
is. By custom, if for no other reason, these details usually add up to
a more or less sordid picture of the world. Furthermore, this kind
of fiction usually involves a philosophic naturalism that is, a will-
ingness to dispense with the spiritual in man and the supernatural
in the universe, and an inference that man's actions are determined
for him by the laws of heredity and, especially, environment. Zola*
86 Creative Writing
Maupassant, Stephen Crane, Theodore Dreiser, John Dos Passos,
and James T. Farrell are some of the best-known practitioners of
naturalism. (Perhaps the Realistic Novel should be considered as a
separate type; in general, however, it lies close to the naturalistic
novel, and differs from the latter in degree rather than in nature.
In America, Henry James, Edith Wharton, Ellen Glasgow, and John
P. Marquand are typical realists.)
g. The Novel of Social Criticism is a realistic novel that points
out the evil or the folly of certain laws, customs, popular beliefs and
standards, popular methods of speech and behavior, and well-
known social types. This kind of novel actually has its origin in the
dramas of Ibsen; H. G. Wells and John Galsworthy popularized the
genre in the novel; Sinclair Lewis, John Steinbeck, and some of
the naturalists brought it to a high point in America.
h. The Novel of Locality tries to give a realistic picture of life as
it is lived in some rather restricted region or province. It depicts the
landscape, the effect of the landscape on the character of the people,
the typical people, their language and behavior and ways of thought,
the principal occupations and interests of the region, and so on.
Individual characters may be important in the novel, but the region
is more important. This kind of novel started with the local color
story writers of the nineteenth century ( Bret Harte, Charles Egbert
Craddock, Constance Woolson, and others), got into the novel
through Edward Eggleston and George W. Cable, and has been
prominent in American fiction ever since.
This type of novel and the two preceding types (naturalistic and
social criticism) are usually well within the scope of the young
writer.
i. Numerous Other Types of novels exist, but cannot be treated
here. The reader will find them catalogued under the heading "Fic-
tion" at the end of the annual volumes of the Book Review Digest,
found in most large libraries. These types include, among many
others, Allegorical Novels, Family Chronicles, Fantasies, Ghost
Stories, Humorous Novels, Love Stories, Mystery and Detective
Novels, Philosophical Novels, Psychological Novels, Religious Nov-
els, Satirical Novels, War Novels, Westerns.
Types of Fiction 287
EXERCISES
In doing the exercises for this chapter, consider the lists of stories
and situations suggested in the exercises for the preceding chapter,
and also the following suggested exercises and stories:
A poor boy wants a violin.
A beggar goes to a cheap lodging house for the night.
A German family living next door have two interesting children.
A man runs past the house.
A lover gives a costly amber necklace to his sweetheart.
A dog bites a man.
A couple marry.
A ship's captain gets a new first officer.
A man wins a fortune in the stock market.
A man falls heir to a fortune.
A woman is deeply interested in national politics.
A child throws a cup at his mother.
A brutal army officer is shot in the back by some of his own men
during a battle.
A child gets a long-desired toy for Christmas.
A man wounded in a brawl is brought to a hospital.
A young husband gets a new son.
A family with a grown daughter moves next door to a college
boy's home.
A youth finds that he is in love with his best friend's sweetheart.
A college boy from a good family finds that he is in love with a
waitress in a cheap restaurant.
A college graduate gets a new job.
A young man goes to live with a rich aunt.
A young woman notices that for several days a man has been
following her wherever she goes.
A sixteen-year-old country boy who has been left an orphan
goes to live with his grandparents in the city.
An idealistic, pure-minded young man gets a job as a common
sailor in order that he may work his way to Europe.
1. Find at least three items in the list that might be developed into
short-stories. Briefly summarize or describe the story as you might
write it; tell the scenes into which you might mold your story, and
give a rough idea of the characters involved. Do the same for short
short-stories (with particular attention to the endings). For Maupas-
santian stories. For Chekhovian stories. For vertical fiction (but
288 Creative Writing
differentiate from Chekhovian stories). For horizontal fiction (list
characters, places, and social strata you might bring in, and tell the
kind of plot you might use to thread them together).
2. Could any of the stories or situations in the list be developed into
various kinds of novels discussed in the text?
3. Look back over the text of this chapter, and list the types of fiction
that are not recommended for young writers.
4. Which of the types of fiction appeals to you most as a reader? Which
do you think would appeal to you most as a writer?
5. If you are not acquainted with some of the authors and works men-
tioned in each section of the chapter above, go, to the library and read
some of them. Be sure to become acquainted with the authors or
works mentioned in Sections 4 and 9.
CHAPTEK XT
The Writer's Approach
The two preceding chapters have tried to introduce the would-be
fiction-writer to the general nature and the large possibilities of
the field he has elected to enter. Beginning with the present chapter,
we start working toward the actual process of creating fiction.
One of the commonest sounds that the teacher of writing hears
from his students is a despairing wail: "I want to write, but I don't
know what to write about!" On first thought, the remark seems
ludicrous, but actually it is quite natural. The young writer feels
within him "an instinct that reaches and towers," a creative urge, a
desire to express something that he vaguely feels. But he has so
little self-confidence that he does not trust himself to say anything;
he sees so much to express that he does not know what to choose;
his training in the recognition of good subject matter for fiction has
been vague; and he has had so little experience with writing that
he does not know how or where or upon what to begin. This chapter
is intended to help the student over these first hurdles of the young
fiction-writer.
I. The Writer as a Person
1. EGOTISM. First of all, a writer should be something of an
egotist, and he should not be ashamed of it. "I am clever," said the
great and honest La Rochefoucauld, "and make no scruple of de-
claring it. Why should I?" One writes to be read; every other kind
of writing is dilettantism. And unless a person thinks he can write
something worth reading, something so good, indeed, that other
people ought to pay money to read it he has no business writing.
If he writes what he knows is trash, and asks other people to buy it,
he is being a cheat. He can sometimes make a living, or even get
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rich, by such writing but then people have got rich, too, by selling
worthless oil stocks or shares in played-out gold mines. The differ-
ence between these latter and the writer of self-acknowledged trash
is quite academic. Like Ben Jonson, the writer should be able to say
honestly of his work, "By God, it's good!"
The young writer may cry at once: "That lets me out! I am not an
egotist." Yet Hazlitt long ago observed that, though we may wish
ourselves different, we have never seen anyone with whom we
should like to change existences. "We had as lief not be, as not be
ourselves." Even St. Paul, one of the greatest writers, not only did
not wish to be anyone else, but was egotist enough to wish that
other people were like him: "I would that all were even as myself."
One asks of a writer only that he be himself, insist on being himself,
and request that others recognize him as a unique self. Everyone
has that much egotism, and should cultivate it.
2. HUMILITY. At the same time, the writer should have humility
in certain directions. First, he must be humble enough to think
that he does not already have a God-given power to write immortal
literature. He must be humble enough to try to learn; to consider
well-meant criticism even if he does riot always take it; to admit he
has made mistakes, and to try to profit by them; to study the art
of other writers; to keep trying to perfect his own work by con-
tinual revision and polishing; to be never completely smug and satis-
fied with only one success.
Next, the young writer must be humble enough to try to adjust
his work to his readers. After all, readers are the final goal; and the
young writer must not declare to himself, "There is one way to say
what I have to say; I shall say it that way; I shall not lower my
standards." The author of this book, though he thinks that a writer
should always be somewhat ahead of his reader, leading him on
with new and difficult ideas, and introducing him to new and radical
methods and points of view, does not think that the writer should
be so engrossed in private symbolism, private associations of words
and images, private techniques, and private references as to be
largely incomprehensible. Much "advanced" poetry belongs to the
school of incomprehensibility, and has therefore removed modern
The Writer's Approach 291
poetry from all but a tiny handful of readers. The writer of this
book hopes that fiction-writers will never commit that crime against
civilization. Discussing a flower with a group of children, one would
use a certain language; discussing it with a college class in botany
one would use a different language; and discussing it with a group of
professional botanists, one would use still different language. No
lowering of linguistic standards is involved here; only common sense
is involved and the determination that nobody shall be deprived of
knowing the marvel and the beauty of a flower.
Likewise, the proud young writer ought not to feel that he is
lowering his literary standards by writing so that nearly all normally
intelligent and well-educated people can understand nearly all of
what he writes. He need not worry if, occasionally, he puzzles his
readers; but he should remember that crossword puzzles do not
make literature. Browning remarked wisely of his own poetry: "I
have never purposely written obscure poetry; but neither do I wish
my poetry to be a substitute for an after-dinner cigar or a game of
dominoes/' One can be highly individual and original by standing
on one's head in church; but who would want to be original in such
a way? There is a happy medium between grotesque individualism
and stupid conventionality. The young fiction-writer should be
humble enough to try to find that happy medium.
3. CHARACTER. Every teacher of writing knows that it is not al-
ways his best students who, later on, make names for themselves in
fiction-writing. The brilliant student without character will never
go so far as the fairly good student with character. Too often the
former (perhaps partly spoiled by his delighted and admiring
teacher) depends on his natural talent alone, whereas the latter,
knowing his weaknesses, depends upon something besides natural
talent. Even writers with the greatest natural gifts must work at their
writings as an examination of their messy, worked-over manu-
scripts, their many revisions, and their frequent rewritings will
show. They must have self-discipline, patience, an "infinite capacity
for taking pains/' tenacity of purpose, ability to sit writing at a desk
many hours every day, self-confidence enough to continue working
in spite of discouragements, humility enough to keep learning all
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the time, shrewdness enough to gauge editorial desires and public
receptivity, steadiness enough to keep going in spite of private and
personal distractions, and enough understanding of the world to
know that the heights of Olympus are seldom scaled in a single
effort, or in a few years, or by many writers in their early twenties.
Writing is serious work like law, medicine, or teaching; and, if it
is to become one's profession, it demands, like other professions, of
all but a very fortunate few, a long and diligent apprenticeship.
II. The Writer s State of Mind
1. DE-EDUCATION. The word mind in the phrase just above does
not mean intellect. It means what the psychologists would call the
psyche the totality of conscious and unconscious, intellectual and
emotional, activities of the individual.
It should be understood at once that this totality is only about ten
percent conscious, willed intellect, and is about ninety percent emo-
tion, mood, sensation, subconscious memory, suppressed impulse,
anxiety, desire, and much besides. Our schools, from kindergarten
through college, are concerned almost exclusively with developing
the intellectual ten percent of our personality, and pay very little
attention to the other ninety percent. Students are taught that the
ideal is to be entirely intellectual and rational, and to judge all
things by intellectual and rational standards. As a matter of fact,
they seldom realize that any other standards exist. The vast mass
of the submerged ninety percent of human personality they ignore,
or deny, or try to suppress.
But the student cannot afford to adopt the intellectual and rational
approach to fiction-writing. He must come at it by an entirely differ-
ent road. He must abandon the scholastic methods to which he has
been accustomed all his life, and the purely intellectual and rational
standards of value with which he has been indoctrinated. "Education
has not made great writers," observes Lafcadio Hearn. "On the
contrary, they have become great in spite of education." The entire
imaginative faculty, he says, "must be cultivated outside of educa-
tion."
The Writer's Approach
For the student to abandon abruptly the intellectual and rational
values that he has been taught so thoroughly for so many years will
not be easy. Many students can never accomplish it. But until the
student learns that by merely taking thought, by being merely
intellectual and rational, he cannot add one cubit to his creative
stature, he cannot be a good writer of fiction. He must, in a sense,
become de-educated. A Phi Beta Kappa key is not the passkey to
creative writing; more often than not, it is a ball-and-chain. It repre-
sents an intellectual and rational triumph by an intellectual and
rational personality when what is wanted is creativeness.
2. FEELING. So completely intellectual and rational has been the
ideal of the schools that no generic term exists to describe a deep
and lasting emotional attitude of a personality. We may say that a
personality is "pessimistic" (like Hardy), or "optimistic" (like Dick-
ens ) , or "brash" ( like Kipling ) , or "disillusioned" ( like Dos Passes ) ,
or "cynically melancholy" (like Conrad), or "hypersensitive" (like
Proust), or "gloomy" (like Dreiser), or "satiric" (like Lewis), or
"flippantly unmoral" (like Oscar Wilde) but even the word "feel-
ing" ( used at the head of this section ) is inadequate to include these
attitudes. The only reason the word is used here is that it is the
least inaccurate of all that might be chosen; the reader must not be
misled into thinking it implies a mere temporary or single emotion.
The fiction-writer's approach to his work must always be that of
feeling "a deep and lasting emotional attitude" toward his subject.
It cannot be merely intellectual and rational. Unless the young
writer feels, unless he is totally possessed by feeling about his sub-
ject, unless he overwhelmingly desires to make his reader feel the
same way (have the same deep and lasting emotional attitude)
toward the subject, he can never write good fiction.
Often the feeling cannot be described, or certainly not described
in a single word. The feeling back of Hemingway's "The Killers"
was doubtless a horrible fascination with the cold-blooded business
of gangsterism. In Katherine Mansfield's "Her First Ball" it was a
sense of the poignancy and the quick-passingness of youthful joy.
In Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" it was a sad, fierce, bitter aware-
ness of the awful evil of which the human heart is capable. In Saki's
94 Creative Writing
"Tobermory" it was amused contempt for a certain section of Brit-
ish society. Without comparable feeling ( or perhaps several related
feelings ) about his own subject, the young fiction-writer will fail.
3. THOUGHT. It is widely taught that intellect and emotion are
natural enemies. In a sound mind, however, they are friends and
allies. For example, the more one reasons about the folly, waste,
and cruelty of war, the more one loathes war; the more one reasons
about certain social and economic injustices, the more intensely one
feels about them; the more one reasons about a person one loves ( if
he is really worthy of love ) , the more one loves that person. Certain
types of minds act as if feeling were not a value worth cultivating;
and certain types of minds act as if thought and logic were not
worth cultivating. But the fiction-writer belongs to neither type. He
knows that both must be cultivated.
Feeling weighs more than thought in fiction, as in life. But the
fiction- writer (especially in the twentieth century) must be some-
thing of a philosopher, a critic of life, a theorizer about life, a scien-
tific observer of life, sometimes a satirist, sometimes a promoter of
ideas, sometimes a revealer of hidden truths, sometimes a solver of
social problems or moral problems or economic problems or political
problems or psychological problems or racial problems. Indeed, the
very greatest fiction has always been interfused with what has been
called "fundamental brain-work." Nevertheless, a caution must be
reiterated: thought, intellectuality, is desirable, perhaps necessary,
in good fiction; but it is not so vital as feeling or even the faculty
to be mentioned next.
4. IMAGINATION. The fiction-writer must have the kind of mind
that can, or will, convert feeling and thought into concrete imagery.
An earlier chapter of this book has discussed imagery at some length.
All that need be said here is that the fiction-writer expresses his
feeling and his thought in concrete images: ( 1 ) in words and phrases
whose sounds create patterns and rouse feeling; (2) in descriptive
details appealing to the sight, sound, taste, and other senses; (3) in
concrete characters; (4) in entire scenes with characters visualized
as speaking and moving against an imagined background; and (5)
in large works conceived in terms of certain forms.
The Writer's Approach 895
III. Cultivation of Values
Because of our characteristic intellectualized education, easy
habit, or mere utilitarian living, most people do not possess the
values that enter into good fiction. Yet many of these values can
be cultivated in any personality. The following sections, and the
exercises that succeed them, suggest values which the young fiction-
writer should have in approaching his problem, and means by which
those values may be cultivated.
1. FEELING. The fiction-writer must view everything with feeling;
if he does not do so already, he must cultivate the habit of doing so.
As a matter of fact, he already has the habit everybody has it.
But in his pursuit of intellectual and external goals, he has permitted
his emotional attitudes toward the world to be ignored, neglected,
and allowed to die at last. As a child he experienced these emotional
attitudes continually; and that is what so many critics have meant
when they have said that the great artist is the one who recaptures
the fresh vision of a child. But "shades of the prison-house begin
to close about the growing boy"; utilitarian considerations smother
the elemental emotions. It is the fiction-writer's task to get out of his
prison-house, and get in touch once more with his long-neglected
emotions.
For practice, wherever he goes and whatever he does, he should
train himself to explore minutely, to follow doggedly, his faint and
disregarded feelings about the world around him. Suppose he en-
ters a classroom and sits down to hear a lecture. What is his emo-
tional reaction to the room itself? Does it depress him? Does it
seem coldly businesslike? Does its lightness and orderliness cheer
him? Does it have unpleasant associations from the past? Does his
chair welcome him? As he settles into it, does he feel as if he were
returning to an old, familiar friend? Or does he feel like a prisoner
returning to his cell? Or does he feel repelled and unwelcome be-
cause of the chair's hardness and moroseness? Does the chair, sit-
ting year after year in this same room, seem tired and unhappy?
And the people around him? Does the perfume of the young woman
sitting on his left make him dream pleasantly of springtime and
896 Creative Writing
flowers and open spaces and love? Or does it nauseate him? What
does he feel about the young man on his right? Does he feel happier
because of the young man's bright expression, or unhappier because
it looks so vapid? Is it a face to admire or a face to pity? Does he
feel that he might like the young man if he knew him better, or
does he feel that he never wants to know him any better? To ex-
plore the emotions suggested by such questions, to learn to draw up
from the depths of the subconscious one's emotional reactions to
every detail of daily life, is to be on the highroad to writing good
fiction.
Not only must the young writer have feelings about concrete
details; he must have them about abstract ideas as well. It was a
powerful feeling about the injustice of the law that inspired Gals-
worthy's Justice; a powerful feeling about the absurdity of artificial
knight-errantry that inspired Don Quixote; a powerful, and probably
unconscious, feeling for the interestingness of an adventuress's life
that inspired Moll Flanders; a powerful feeling for the amusing and
heartily lustful life of rural England that inspired Tom Jones; and,
as Arnold Bennett himself has said, a powerful feeling for the
changes wrought in human beings by time that inspired An Old
Wives 9 Tale. The young fiction-writer almost certainly has feelings
about a hundred such matters; but he probably hasn't realized it.
His business as a writer is to discover and cultivate those feelings.
2. OBSERVATION. Most people are such victims of habit, or so
accustomed to regarding all objects for their utilitarian value alone,
that they seldom observe anything. They do not know how the
color of the sky at the horizon differs from its color at the zenith;
they cannot reproduce the general shape of an oak leaf; they can-
not describe the wrapper of their favorite gum or candy-bar; they
do not know the eye-color of their history professor, and cannot
describe his voice; they cannot describe the difference between a
meadowlark's song and a redwing blackbird's; they cannot remem-
ber the size, color, and shape of buildings they can see from their
study window; they use a chair or a desk or a book or a pen or a
knife or a pencil-sharpener, and do not know what it looks like or
The Writer's Approach
feels like or sounds like or smells like. Yet it is of just such details
as these that fiction largely consists.
The young fiction-writer can do much to cultivate the observa-
tional powers that are probably undeveloped within him. First, he
can deliberately exercise his observation at all odd moments when
his mind is not otherwise occupied as when he is riding a bus,
waiting to keep an appointment, walking along a street, or listening
to a dull lecture. He can note precisely, and state to himself in words,
details that he carefully or casually observes. Second, he can keep a
notebook in which he sets down four or five brief concrete images
every day. And finally, if he has the inclination, he can sketch or
paint. It is not an accident that very many creative writers have
also been artists, after a fashion, with pencil or brush. To draw or
paint, one must observe details with a fresh and careful eye; and to
write imaginatively, one must do the same thing.
3. PEOPLE. Perhaps those who are not interested in people do
not even desire to write fiction. Yet many of those who get into
fiction-writing classes have only a slight interest in people. Some-
times, however, they possess one saving grace: they are profoundly
and intensely interested in themselves. This interest may make them
boresome in conversation; but it is certainly no barrier, but actually
a lift, on their road to becoming fiction-writers. To understand
oneself is no mean accomplishment and besides, it is one way to
understand other people.
But the writer who appreciates only himself is capable of writing
only vertical fiction, and perhaps very little of that. To write hori-
zontal fiction, or much fiction of any kind, the writer must appreciate
other people as well. He does not need to love them (Dos Passos*
immense U. S. A., with its hundreds of characters, has not one quite
lovable or admirable character), or even understand them; he need
be only intensely aware of people. If he is not aware of them already,
he can deliberately cultivate awareness.
He can cultivate it on three planes. First, he can be industrious
in merely noting, remembering, or recording external details about
people: their face and body, their dress, their gestures, their voices,
%98 Creative Writing
what they say, what they do. He can do this by a mere process of
non-participating observation, as suggested in the preceding sec-
tion. He can watch them in the bus, on the street, in the classroom,
at social gatherings and when he gets home, he can jot down in a
notebook some of the details he has observed.
Next, he can react emotionally to people. He can dislike them
(and he should certainly observe the unlikeable people quite as
carefully as the likeable ones); he can like them; he can feel con-
tempt for them, or disgust, or admiration, or pity, or respect, or
fear, or any other emotion, definable or indefinable. Most of the
great nineteenth-century novelists, and many in the twentieth cen-
tury, got no further than this in their reaction to characters. The
feeling we have about people is usually quite different from the
feeling we have about things. Our feeling about the latter comes
entirely from ourselves; and even when we endow things with cer-
tain emotions, as when we speak of "an unfriendly room," "a merci-
less sun," "an unhappy flower," 1 we are fully aware that it is our-
selves who endow these things with feeling. But when we have a
feeling about a person, we are very likely to have done a little in-
terpretation, a little unconscious character-reading. We know that
a person may very well be unfriendly, or merciless, or unhappy
and we react with certain feelings in return. If it is a small child
who is unfriendly, we react by behaving and feeling almost ex-
cessively friendly; if it is a salesman in a shop who is unfriendly,
we react by being even more unfriendly, and walking out of the
shop; or if it is a bus driver who is unfriendly, we react by ignoring
and forgetting him. The point is that our own feelings about people
are often a function of what we think people are; we think we
understand them, and our understanding makes us have a feeling
about them.
Writers of what is considered the best modern fiction, however,
seldom react by mere feeling to their concepts of people. Instead,
the modern fiction-writer often assumes a scientific detachment,
1 Endowing things with feelings which are actually our own is what Ruskin
condemned as the "pathetic fallacy." But we need not take Rnskin too seriously.
The pathetic fallacy is entirely respectable; it is as old as poetry itself, and has
been used in great literature from the Bible down to today.
The Writer's Approach 899
and tries to find out what makes people have certain characteristics.
If a person seems unfriendly why? Is it an inferiority complex
working on him? Is he frightened? Has he been dominated so much
by parents and others that he feels hostile to everybody? Is he a
sensitively organized person who is hurt by close contact with the
world? The modern fiction-writer delves into all these matters
and usually comes up with only one feeling for a character: sym-
pathy. The villain is not so common in modern fiction as he formerly
was; and when he does appear, he is treated quite objectively no
effort is made to understand him completely. "To understand all is to
forgive all'*; if we understood the villain in fiction, we should not
have a villain.
All this leads up to a very important recommendation for the
young fiction-writer. He should be familiar with the principal mod-
ern psychological theories involving personality; he should be es-
pecially familiar with the elements of Freudian psychology, both
in Freud's own work and in the work of Freud's disciples and critics.
And he should look into sociological-psychological works recording
case histories of juvenile delinquents, criminals, and other socially
maladjusted people. Acquaintanceship with these books is quite as
important to the fiction-writer as acquaintanceship with books on
the art of writing.
4. INFORMATION. What has just been said leads straight into
the matter of being well informed. Readers nowadays expect to
get information from fiction, especially from novels; they expect to
be told something about "how the other half lives/' or about some
locality that they do not know or do not know so well as the writer
knows it, or about some historical period, or about some other
specialized field of knowledge ( sailing ships, Egyptian archaeology,
life on a submarine, dogs, mining coal, building dams, or the like).
The amount of information demonstrated by most great writers
about a variety of subjects is amazing. Everything, literally every-
thing, is grist for the writer's mill; and everybody, literally every-
body, can make a contribution to him. He should read the news-
papers and magazines (every type of magazine), books of science
and books of history, books of criticism and biographies about
800 Creative Writing
every conceivable subject, idea, place, or person. He should try
consciously to acquire knowledge about different varieties of toma-
toes and the latest theory about the expanding universe, about the
way a helicopter works and the poetry of T. S. Eliot, about the
principal wild flowers of his region and the newest economic pro-
posals about rehabilitating the world. In particular, he should culti-
vate a nodding acquaintance with art in all its aspects (painting,
sculpture, architecture, music, writing, dancing, acting ) ; natural his-
tory, especially in its local aspects (botany, zoology, meteorology);
the most important local businesses or ways that people have of
making a living; modern psychology; and (apparently more and
mots necessary nowadays) sociology and politics.
Much of the knowledge just mentioned the writer can get from
reading. Much more he can get from observation of the world about
him nature, architecture, social classes, slum districts and wealthy
districts, the work that people do, and people themselves. Most
people have a special knowledge about something about babies,
cooking, pruning trees, digging a ditch, repairing a car, ancient his-
tory. When a writer meets a new person, he should try to draw
him out, to suck him dry like an orange. (The remarkable thing is
that the person himself is delighted to be drawn out.) Of course,
some people can be sucked dry in a few minutes or a few hours
after which they may become bores. But there is nobody from a
baby in its cradle to a professor of physics, from a teen-age boy to an
octogenarian tenant farmer, who cannot contribute something valua-
ble to the writer. The writer must learn to cultivate them all. He
cannot afford to be snobbish, to hold himself aloof from people.
The dirtiest, loudest, poorest, most ignorant, or most boorish people
are the ones who can contribute most of all.
5. IDEAS. The fiction-writer should observe life, read about life,
accumulate facts, gather data from many sources, and then gen-
eralize about it all. He should have theories, ideas, philosophy
about motivations of human behavior, morality as distinguished
from conventionality, facts as distinguished from ideals in men's
conduct, man's relation to the unknown, the essential nature of
male and female or child and adult, the influence of environment
The Writer's Approach 301
and of heredity in forming character, economic and social abuses
and means of correcting them, the deep implications of certain
political theories, and much besides.
If the writer does not already have ideas on such matters, he
can cultivate them in several ways. First, he can do much reading
in books and magazines devoted to economics, politics, philosophy,
and the arts. Every library has more of these than any person can
ever read. Just which of them the student reads makes little differ-
ence, provided he reads more than one on the same subject, and
chooses those that interest him most. Next, he should cultivate the
habit of deliberately disagreeing with the theories he reads, es-
pecially if those theories are conventional and generally accepted,
and of trying to find sound arguments or specific examples that
refute them. This habit of questioning the commonplace is a health-
ful and mentally stimulating practice, as well as a means of acquiring
a stock of ideas that actually belong to oneself. Third, the writer
should approach the problem from a more personal direction. When
someone he knows acts in a certain way, or when he reads in the
paper that someone has done or said something newsworthy (per-
haps it is a murder, or a confession, or a public statement by an
official, or an editorial, or the introduction of a bill in the legislature )
the writer should try to think out the reasons behind it all. It is
not enough to say that the murderer is cruel why is he cruel?
It is not enough to say that an acquaintance acted thus-and-so be-
cause he is arrogant why is he arrogant? It is not enough to say
that the legislator does what he thinks is best for the people why
does he think this particular bill is best? Who are the people he
wants to benefit? Could it be that he is rationalizing? All that is
ever required for cultivating a large crop of ideas is to ask a diligent
why of everything.
6. DELIGHT. For the honest fiction-writer, writing should be a
delight not a constant delight or a delight in every detail, but an
overall delight, and a delight in at least some of the details. It does
not matter that writing is work; creative work and accomplishment
is almost the most satisfying activity that a person can engage in.
When a writer becomes excessively bored with his work, it is due
Creative Writing
to the fact that he needs a short vacation, is not actually creating,
or is not cut out to be a writer. As a rule, the writer, with a little
help, can dispose of the first of these troubles; nobody can take
care of the last; and the writer himself, by listening to a little good
advice, can take care of the middle one.
The writer can cultivate delight in his work by giving more and
stricter thought to (a) the general architecture of his work: scenes,
transitions, space requirements, exposition, contrasts, plot compli-
cation, movement, and so on; (b) the more minute, jewel-cutter's
details of apt, brief, clear, suggestive, and beautiful sentence, phrase,
and word; (c) the elaboration of sensuous appeal, the creation or
re-creation of concrete images; (d) emphasis on the idea, theme,
or philosophy for which the writer is trying, like a lawyer, to build
up a case; ( e ) an increased attempt to view the subject, as a whole
and in detail, emotionally, and to make the reader have the same
emotion about it; and (f) the deep and intricate motivations that
make his characters act as he has them act. In addition, the creative
writer may consider himself as a kind of god taking delight in
creating and peopling worlds or he may consider himself a kind
of emissary of God in revealing to others the marvels of the created
universe. Browning expressed this idea dramatically in "Fra Lippo
T o*
Lippi :
You speak no Latin more than I, belike;
However, you're my man, you've seen the world
The beauty and the wonder and the power,
The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises, and God made it all!
For what? Do you feel thankful, aye or no,
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line,
The mountain round it and the sky above,
Much more the figures of man, woman, child,
These are the frame to? What's it all about?
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon,
Wondered at? oh, this last of course! you say.
But why not do as well as say, paint these
Just as they are, careless what comes of it?
God's works paint any one, and count it crime
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works
The Writer's Approach 80S
Are here already; nature is complete:
Suppose you reproduce her (which you can't)
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then."
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love
First when we see them painted, things we have passed
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see;
And so they are better, painted better to us,
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that.
If none of these devices can prevent the writer from being bored
with the task he has set himself, he has probably set himself the
wrong task. It is too big for him; it is too difficult for him; he does
not know as much about it as he thought he did; he is not able to
be so original, creative, or self-expressive in it as he had hoped.
He had better drop that task and undertake a new one.
7. IN CONCLUSION. No writer possesses, abundantly or com-
pletely, every desirable characteristic mentioned in this chapter.
All writers are weak in one or more of them. The student need not
feel that he is born to be a failure because he cannot live up to the
standards outlined here. Furthermore, it is quite likely that the
student has several of these characteristics without knowing it. For
example, he may have observed without being conscious of it;
images may have registered in his mind automatically. Or he may
have an insight into the characters of people, and an understanding
of their motive forces, without being aware of it. He has no way of
knowing the truth about such matters till he has tested himself in
writing.
It should be mentioned, moreover, that the suggestions already
given in this chapter, as well as the exercises below, should be
chiefly regarded as exercises. They are like the finger exercises
of a pianist. Everybody knows that finger exercises do not constitute
good music, and that a pianist who is very proficient in finger exer-
cises is not necessarily a great musician. But they may help the
pianist become a great musician. In the same way, the suggestions
and exercises of this chapter are not guaranteed to produce great
writers. But they can help. They can open the eyes of the young
writer to certain possibilities he may not have recognized previously;
they can call attention to certain values that he did not know were
304 Creative Writing
values; they may acquaint him with an approach that he may have
stumbled past without noticing. In a word, this chapter is not meant
to carry the student all the way along the road to perfect fiction-
writing. It is meant only to show him, by persuading him to explore
in certain directions, where the road to fiction-writing lies.
EXERCISES
I. THE WRITER AS A PERSON
1. Egotism.
a. List the ways in which you think you differ from most other
people;
or your five or ten outstanding traits as a person;
or several specific ambitions (perhaps about very minor mat-
ters of the next few days or weeks) that you have;
or some opinions of yours that differ from the opinions of
your parents or of your best friend;
or your private emotional attitudes toward the town you live
in, the college you attend, the group of friends you go with, or
some particular course you are taking.
b. Briefly characterize eight or ten people whom you know much
better than any of your friends or the people in your writing class
know them.
c. List private emotional experiences of yours (pride, humiliation,
grief, despair, love, pity, terror, hatred) that have had a deep or
permanent effect on you.
d. List specific experiences of yours (sickness, travel, receiving
honors, making speeches or acting in plays, visiting certain buildings
or rooms or landscape features, fights, quarrels, accidents) that other
people have not had.
2. Humility.
a. If possible, the writing class should be organized into a Writing
Club where students can read their work, or have it read, and where
other students criticize. If a club is not feasible, papers should fre-
quently be read aloud in class, and the students allowed to criticize.
But the students should remember five rules: Never be content with
saying merely, "I like that'* or "I don't like that" be prepared to tell
why; always say something good as well as something bad about a
work to encourage as well as to correct the writer, and to train your-
The Writer's Approach 305
self to be generous and humble about other people's work; never be
personal or make personal inferences or act as if you thought some
story were autobiographical stick to the work itself without getting
outside it to make personal remarks; never criticize a work for not
being or not doing what the writer did not want it to be or do; never
spend much time finding fault with minutiae like anachronisms, slight
inaccuracies of fact, minor inconsistencies, or debatable probabilities
merely point them out, and then drop the subject.
b. Read some of Joyce's Finnegans Wake, T. S. Eliot's Waste
Land, and some of the poetry published in the 1940's and 1950's in
Poetry, The Sewanee Review, and the Kenyan Review, and try to
determine for yourself whether the writers were always sufficiently
humble.
3. Character.
a. During at least a week, write for an hour at exactly the same
time every day, regardless of what happens or how you feel.
b. Resolve never to let yourself get behind in your work in the
writing class and keep the resolution.
c. Recopy three times (revising each time) the first page of at
least the next five manuscripts you hand in.
II. THE WRITER'S STATE OF MIND
1. De-education.
a. Make a list of occurrences in your life that have pleased you
most; that have disturbed you most; that would please you most if
they should happen; that would disturb you most if they should
happen. What percentage of them have an entirely intellectual or
rational basis, or are closely related to intellectuality or rationality?
b. Read over the section on "Rationalization" in Chapter XI, and
do some of the suggested exercises. Do you think many of your
opinions, your parents' opinions, your professors' opinions, or your
friends' opinions are altogether intellectual and rational or are they
products of rationalization?
2. Feeling.
a. If you are reading stories in connection with your class in writ-
ing, try to express in words the feeling (the overall emotional at-
titude) of the writer of each story to his subject.
b. Analyze some of your own stories in the same way.
c. What are your two or three basic emotional attitudes toward
people in general; the world in general; children; your contem-
poraries; your elders; animals; your own life?
306 Creative Writing
d. Turn to the lists of story subjects suggested in the exercises of
the two preceding chapters, and tell of the feeling with which you
might approach several of them.
3. Thought.
a. Turn to the lists of story subjects mentioned just above, and
see which ones might be used as vehicles for some more-or-less
philosophical ideas of yours about human nature, environment, he-
redity, modern morality, economics, and so on.
b. Probably you have often in life implied that you have a general-
ized philosophy about human nature by saying: "People are like
that!" "Isn't that just like a man or a womanK' "What else could you
expect of an Englishman a Negro a white man a Jew a Chris-
tian a Protestant a Catholic a carpenter a college professor!"
"After all, we shouldn't be surprised because a child acts like a
child." Write down more precisely some of the ideas implied in these
generalizations.
c. Do you have any specific economic, educational, or social
theories that you hold by very firmly? Write them down as briefly,
but precisely, as possible.
d. Do you have any specific theories about men's duties or obliga-
tions to one another? To their country? To their class? Write them
down.
e. Do you have any specific theories about God's relation to man,
or man's relation to God? Write them down.
f. Could you plan a story illustrating the truth of some of these
theories? (The characters and action would probably be symbolistic
as described in Section 8 of Chapter XIV.)
4. Imagination.
Turn back to some of the exercises (not previously done) that were
suggested in connection with Chapter VII.
III. CULTIVATION OF VALUES
1. Feeling.
a. Briefly describe the following so as to show the feeling you have
about them, or to make the reader have a feeling about them:
a pencil; a pair of shoes; an automobile; your classroom; the
building in which your classroom is located; an insect; a fish;
a cat; a cow; a flower; a lawn; a hedge; a tree.
b. What is your feeling about the following:
college life; some job you have once held; the city or locality
where you live; the maturity and old age that will come to you;
marriage; the single life; private charity; America's present
The Writer's Approach 307
foreign policy, or domestic economic policy, or some aspect of
either; orthodox morality; immortality.
2. Observation.
a. Write a brief descriptive sentence about each of at least twenty
details that you can see in the room you are now in.
b. Write a careful and considerably longer description of one of
these details.
c. Write careful descriptions of the following:
some bird's song; the noise in a classroom before the in-
structor appears; a particular flower; a particular insect; smells
in a kitchen, or in a restaurant, or in a grocery store; your cat
asleep; your cat stalking a bird; your cat reacting to a dog;
your cat wanting to be fed.
d. Turn back and do some more of the exercises (not previously
done) that were suggested in connection with Chapter VII.
3. People.
a. Watch some lecturer for an hour or so, and, as he talks, jot down
a list of specific details about his dress, his facial expressions, his
gestures with hands and arms and head, movements of his body, his
voice.
b. Do the same for one of a group of children playing outside your
window; or for a young man and young woman sitting together; or
for your mother as she goes about her housework.
c. Look about at the students in one of your classes, or at people
passing a street corner, or at any other group of people, and write
down your feeling about each individual. You need not try to be fair
to the individual; just blurt out your first feeling in looking at him.
d. Read any of the books on the psychology of personality, and
books or magazine articles recording psychological or sociological
case histories, that your library contains. Be sure to include Freud's
work, or commentaries on it, and probably Jung's work. Learn the
Freudian concept of dreams, and the meaning of the following terms:
libido, the unconscious, mental conflict, repression, sadism, masoch-
ism, Oedipus complex, extrovert and introvert, ambivalence, defense
mechanisms, phobias, projection, sublimation and substitution. Learn
the symptoms of paranoia, dementia praecox, manic-depression,
schizophrenia.
4. Information.
a. Go to your library and discover the major classifications in its
system. Note the ones in which you feel yourself totally ignorant,
and then read elementary books on those subjects.
308 Creative Writing
b. The next time you are thrown with a stranger, try to draw him
out. When you get home, jot down in a notebook what you have
learned from him.
5. Ideas.
a. Do what is suggested in the second paragraph of this section;
that is, read some recent magazine or newspaper (choose a notori-
ously conservative or notoriously radical one) and then deliberately
try to prove to yourself that its point of view is false.
b. Do the same for some popular professor.
c. Can you put up a good argument for disagreeing with any-
thing you have read in the present chapter of this book?
d. Consider the last time you took offense at someone's actions or
remarks. Can you imagine any reason why the offender acted or
spoke as he did?
5. Delight.
Which of the methods of cultivating delight (suggested in this
section) do you consider most applicable to your own problems and
your own character? Which sorts of delight predominated when you
wrote your last story?
CHAPTEE XVI
The Substance of Fiction
Up to this point, we have discussed fiction somewhat as we might
discuss an automobile. We have told the general nature of the
fictional automobile, have mentioned the chief types of automobiles,
and have outlined the requirements of drivers. In the present chap-
ter we shall point out, one by one, the different parts that compose
the automobile and make it work.
1. FEELING. The word feeling keeps bobbing up incessantly when
we talk about fiction. Feeling is like steel in our automobile; prac-
tically everything in fiction is feeling. It takes many forms, but the
elemental substance is the same. The one indispensable substance
the writer must put into fiction is feeling, because the one indis-
pensable substance the reader requires in fiction is feeling. It is
the substance which is molded into character, setting, action, idea,
and style. Before an automobile can exist, there must be steel; and
before fiction can exist, there must be feeling.
2. SUBJECT. Fiction must be about something. Unlike some forms
of modern painting or sculpture, in which design exists abstractly,
like an algebraic equation, fiction is representational. The repre-
sentation may be either "lifelike" or distorted. But fiction is about
something. It has subject matter consisting of people, events, ideas,
background, and perhaps much more.
In general, the young fiction-writer should follow four rules, or
commandments, about the subject:
a. Write about a world with which you are familiar. The word
here is a world, not the world. Every person is familiar with many
worlds. A college student, for example, is familiar with the world of
youth as a whole, the high-school world, several geographical worlds
(city, section of city, county, section of country, country) where
309
310 Creative Writing
he has lived or visited, several economic worlds ( rich, poor, middle
class) that he has observed, church world, the racial or professional
world to which his parents belong, any world where he has ever
held a job, his intimate family world, any world ( sports, army, night
clubs, shipboard, airplane) where he has ever had an experience,
the private world of his own dreams and fantasies, and (if he has
ever studied any one topic intensively ) the world of that particular
topic. With all these worlds to choose from, the fiction-writer need
never be at a loss for a subject. He need not write about British
royalty, the antebellum South, Chicago gangsters, or pirates in the
Malay seas.
It should be remembered, moreover, that familiarity with any
world is a relative matter. Nobody ever knows everything about any
one of his worlds; and if the young writer waits until he is very
thoroughly informed about any world before writing, he will never
write. One need not have lived in a place all his life in order to
write about it; for example, O. Henry never lived in Nashville, but
his "A Municipal Report," set in Nashville, is a superb story. One
need not have been a rancher to write about roundups; seeing one
roundup is enough. One need not be a gardener in order to write
about roses, or a mother in order to write about children, or an
ornithologist in order to write about birds. What a writer usually
does in actual practice is to conceive the idea of writing about one
of the worlds with which he is more or less acquainted, and then
accumulate more precise details about it by means of specifically
directed observation, inquiry, or reading. Of course, if one already
knows enough about the subject to write from his memory or knowl-
edge of it, so much the better.
b. Choose for subject matter anything in one of your worlds that
has stirred a feeling in you joy, amusement, grief, anger, pity,
wonder, delight, bliss, adoration, admiration, horror, indignation,
hatred, contempt, bewilderment, frustration, disappointment, dis-
illusionment, or anything else. The feeling need not be strong; it
need only be pervading and real. It may be a feeling, as already
suggested, for a character, a place, an idea, an action, or a situation.
You are delighted with a fine play in a crisis on the football field;
The Substance of Fiction 311
that is a subject for fiction. You are amazed that two such persons
as A and B should be married; that is a subject for fiction. You
recall the pain of some of the disillusionments you have suffered in
college; that is a subject for fiction. You feel sorry for a child beg-
ging on the streets; that is a subject for fiction.
c. Prefer the unusual to the customary and commonplace as a
subject. Actually, everything, if looked at in a certain way, is out
of the ordinary for the simple reason that every character is a
unique individual, every situation involving such a unique character
is therefore unique, and every incident is unique because it happens
at a time that never has been before and never will be again. More-
over, some writers (like Jane Austen and Arnold Bennett) have a
genius for charming the reader with the fascination of the com-
monplace; and some ( like Chekhov, Virginia Woolf , Thomas Wolfe,
and sometimes even Maupassant) can make high drama out of the
ordinary by revealing the emotional tensions, or perhaps the social
significances, lying beneath the surface. Nevertheless, the student
would probably do well to start his fiction-writing career by dealing
with an unusual subject. Later on he may experiment to see whether
he is a new Jane Austen or Arnold Bennett.
But the word unusual is also relative. One kind of unusual subject
is that which would make a newspaper headline or "stop a crowd in
a street." It might be a war, a riot, a fight, a murder, a pursuit, a
celebrity, a freak, an experience with the supernatural, an accident,
a convict, an exploration, some far-off and little-known place like
the Arctic or central China or islands of the South Seas, a strange
group of cultists, a little-known pocket or stratum of our own society,
or the like. On the other hand, unusual subjects may be nothing
more than unsensational out-of-the-ordinary incidents in the lives
of rather ordinary characters: a broken doll in the life of a little
girl, a chance meeting of two former lovers, a college student's inter-
view with his draft board, the birth of a baby, a quarrel with one's
lover, a love affair, a marriage, an operation, going to the circus,
and so on. The interest of such stories (Chekhovian stories they
would be) would lie in the characters revealed, the psychological
states suggested, the emotional conflicts implied, certain types of
312 Creative Writing
society or of character presented, a setting created or represented, a
fanciful world invented.
d. A subject should always be at least two subjects. In the nine-
teenth century the fiction-writer could tell a story of a love affair
between characters, with various misunderstandings, false accusa-
tions, and other obstacles to the happy consummation of the love
and that was all there was to it. Indeed, a great many stories in the
"popular" magazines today require nothing else but a story nothing
but an interesting subject (usually love or adventure) worked into
an interesting plot. But the modern story with any serious preten-
sions to literary merit exists on two levels. If it is a war story, it
will not only recount war adventures, but will illustrate some feel-
ing or philosophy of the writer's concerning war or men at war.
If it is a love story, it will try to reveal the intricate nature, the
curious sources, the odd manifestations of the emotion of love
broadly conceived. If it is a story about a child, it will not be a
story about one child, but about all children about their problems,
their struggles, their griefs, their joys, the fundamental nature of
child psychology, the difficulties an adult has in getting into the
child mind or child point of view. Alice in Wonderland could prob-
ably not be written today, and neither could Robinson Crusoe.
Neither the authors nor the readers of those books would be satisfied
to have them remain what they are: pure studies in fantasy; modern
authors and readers would want all the characters and events to
have a deeper meaning, a symbolic significance. When books of pure
fancy (without deeper meaning) such as these are written today,
the critics slight them and they are soon forgotten. One out of a
thousand or so of them (Anthony Adverse, Gone with the Wind,
Forever Amber) may become a popular best seller, usually for a
very short time; but then they are forgotten. Serious fiction in the
twentieth century must nearly always have more in it than appears
on the surface; its subject is both individual and general.
3. THEME. What has just been said about the dualism of subject
overlaps the topic of theme in fiction. The theme is the essential
idea, or intellectual concept, of which the characters and action are
specific illustrations. It is the generalized abstraction covering the
The Substance of Fiction 313
concrete instances of the story. Fiction is not philosophy and it
does not philosophize or preach, but good fiction is always philo-
sophic. It generalizes about life, expresses ideas about life, comes
to some intellectual conclusion about life (even if the conclusion
is that no conclusion is possible). Professor J. W. Mackail, of Ox-
ford, once expressed the idea thus: "Life, as it presents itself to us
as we pass through it, has no pattern, or at least none (except to
some people of very simple and fervid religious belief) that is cer-
tain and intelligible. It is multiplex and bewildering; its laws are
confused; it does not satisfy our hopes or our aspirations: some-
times it seems purposeless. ... It makes no pattern." Good fiction
makes out of life some intelligible pattern, draws some kind of
meaning out of the multiplex, bewildering, and confused world.
Good fiction has theme. Indeed, says David Masson, "the value of
any work of fiction, ultimately and on the whole, is the. worth of
the speculation, the philosophy, on which it rests." Of course, it
by no means follows that a piece of fiction having the deepest philo-
sophic or moral import, one expressing the profoundest truths about
human life, is necessarily great or even good fiction. But really good
fiction cannot exist without philosophical content, without theme.
The theme may be trite and painfully obvious, as in certain Sun-
day-School stories; it may be highly original and thought-provoking,
as in Shaw, Wells, and Galsworthy where also the theme is often
too obvious; or it may be subtle, something merely suggested or
implied or vaguely felt by the reader and perhaps not clearly under-
stood by the writer, as in Conrad, Bennett, Faulkner, Hemingway,
Thomas Wolfe, and Virginia Woolf . But even in these last, a theme
is present, and is profound.
4. CHARACTERS, a. Perhaps the first, and most obvious, thing
to be said about characters in fiction is that, in general, the narrative
should be centered about one character. But this advice should be
taken with reservations. Sometimes a group of people ( a family or
a squad of soldiers, for example) may constitute the central "char-
acter." Sometimes it may be a house, or a locality, or an animal, or
even a half -personified force in nature like a storm, a sea, a moun-
tain, or a drouth.
314 Creative Writing
Furthermore, in a very long narrative ( like Bennett's Old Wives'
Tale) the central character may change from part to part, or even
from chapter to chapter. Finally, in some chapters, or parts, or
even entire works, the interest may be focused on no one character,
but may be divided among many though such a scattering of
interest is very unusual.
As a general rule, however, the young fiction-writer should decide
from the beginning that his work will be centered about one char-
acter, or two at most. This means that the one character will be
given most space; his actions, thoughts, and emotions will be re-
corded in greatest detail; little or nothing will be narrated if it
does not concern him or does not happen in his presence; and the
world in which he lives will be seen as through his eyes and no-
body else's. As in a photograph, he will be in sharp focus constantly,
and all the other characters will be more or less out of focus except
as they move very close to him.
b. Some characters are highly individualized, and exist because
they are intrinsically interesting like the designs in a kaleidoscope,
or a three-legged duck, or a midget. Many of Fielding's and
Dickens's minor characters are of this type, as are some major char-
acters in other authors (Silas Marner, Quasimodo, Becky Sharp,
the Mayor of Casterbridge ) . Such characters are likely to pre-
dominate in stories of the Maupassantian type.
c. Typical characters have always appeared in fiction, and are
more common today in serious fiction than are individualized char-
acters. A character may be typical in several ways. He may be
typical of a period of life (childhood, the teens, youth, and so on),
of a sex, of a time in history, of a geographical region, of a race,
of a trade or profession, of a social class, of a manner of thinking
or acting or feeling (the ambitious person, the religious person,
the wastrel, the disillusioned, the person maladjusted in any num-
ber of ways, the coward, the melancholic, and so on ) . Furthermore,
he can be typical in several of these ways at once; for example, he
could be a happy-go-lucky peasant boy of teen age in fifteenth-
century England ( manner of feeling, class, sex, age, time in history,
The Substance of Fiction 315
geographical locality) or he could be a grouchy old aristocratic
landowner in Virginia today. Oddly enough, if one gives any char-
acter a large number of typical traits, the character becomes in-
dividualized.
Typical characters are in demand nowadays because this is a
scientific age and a typical character gives the reader solid in-
formation about some group of people, and seems to be the in-
ductive result of extensive observation on people.
d. Static characters prevail in most short stories and many novels.
They are characters ( like those in Chaucer's Prologue to the Canter-
bury Tales) that do not change while we know or observe them;
they remain throughout a piece of fiction just what they were at
the beginning. Most love stories in the popular magazines have
such characters; so do stories of sports and outdoor adventure; so
do most humorous stories; so do certain analytical stories whose
chief concern is to reveal a psychological condition that exists.
e. Developing characters, those that change, are usually more
interesting than static characters. They are more interesting because
they indicate more skill and understanding on the part of the author,
and because they are more true to Me than are static characters.
In the real world, our mannerisms vary from year to year; our
opinions, our habits of action, our customary reactions change as
we change places of residence, grow older, and learn more from
experience. When a teacher is young, he wants to fail all his stu-
dents; as he grows older, he wants to pass them all. When he is
young, he believes he knows a good deal; as he grows older, he
doubts whether he knows anything. When he is young, he tries to
help people with good advice; as he grows older, he knows that
nobody ever takes advice.
A writer who can trace the growth of such differences in char-
acter, can account for them by the experiences he allows his char-
acter to undergo, and can present them convincingly, always has
a higher place among the critics than does a writer who portrays
merely static characters. Nearly all the greatest works of fiction
show the development of characters: Macbeth shows it; Hamlet
316 Creative Writing
shows it; Julius Caesar shows it; Antony and Cleopatra shows it;
f Les Miserables shows it; Crime and Punishment shows it; The
DolFs House shows it.
The words "development" and "change" as used here are meant
to signify growth. The mere changing of a character's nature from
good to evil or from evil to good, or from wisdom to folly or
from folly to wisdom, and so on, is easily portrayed. Moreover,
such out-and-out transformations may, at first glance, seem quite
plausible. A man's son dies and the father, grief-stricken, resolves
to be sober thereafter. Or a respectable woman cannot retain her
lover, and so, in vexation, resolves to be bad. Or a man who has
intervened to help settle a family quarrel gets into difficulties with
the entire family and so resolves never again to be so foolish as
to interfere in a family quarrel.
It is easy to project such changes, mere transformations as they
are, into fiction. But if we regard character development not as
mere change, but as growth, we must ask ourselves, "What did
this new phase of character grow from? What was the seed within
the character which was only waiting the proper encouragement
to unfold?" Before a writer can venture to attempt the portrayal of
character growth, he must ask himself, Have I planted the seed
for such growth? If Macbeth had not had the seed of ambition
within him, the witches could never have egged him on into crime;
if Hamlet had not had the seed of strength in him, he could never
have grown into the resolute courage which was his after his re-
turn from England; if Brutus had not had the seed of personal honor
and affection in him, he could never have become the sad and re-
morseful man he was on the eve of Philippi. Sudden conversions
do not indicate character growth: they are always unwarranted in a
well-constructed plot, and they are not true to life.
Moreover, it is not character growth when, under the pressure
of extraordinary circumstances, some hitherto reliable bulkhead
of character gives way. For example, when, in the almost notorious
play Rain, the woman's wickedness at first gave way, and then the
preacher's virtue, there was no real change in either the woman or
the preacher. Neither had before been subjected to such a strain
The Substance of Fiction 317
as both encountered on the island; if they had been, they would
have given way before. On the island they underwent new ex-
periences; but after those experiences the woman was actually no
better and the man actually no worse than they had been before.
Their true characters were merely exposed by the new incidents.
But character exposure and character development are not the
same thing.
5. BACKGROUND. The background against which characters move
and within which the action occurs was only incidental in the very
earliest fiction. But beginning with the historical novel of the early
nineteenth century (Scott and his followers), background became
very important. A little later (with Kingsley, Dickens, Thackeray,
and Eliot) the social background was introduced. Still later, what
may be called the geographical background began to take preced-
ence over the other types. It was extremely important in Wuthering
Heights (1846) and became all-important in the "local colorists" of
America ( Bret Harte, George W. Cable, Charles Egbert Craddock,
Thomas Nelson Page, Mary Wilkins Freeman). Today all these
types of background figure in fiction, sometimes all together, and
usually much more exact and circumscribed in scope than pre-
viously. Thus, today we should probably not have a book like Scott's
Ivanhoe about medieval England in general; we should have in-
stead a book about persons belonging to the armorer's trade in a
certain section of London in 1202.
Probably the majority of stories published in most of the maga-
zines of our time have little important background material; the
stories could have happened almost anywhere in modern America
to almost any generalized class of people. On the other hand, some
of the best stories (one thinks of Faulkner, Steinbeck, Welty) are
built solidly into a background without which the story could not
exist. And practically all of the best novels depend similarly on
background.
The ideal (which, of course, cannot always be attained) is to
have background, actions, and characters so interdependent that no
one of them could exist without the others. What happens in New
Orleans could not possibly happen in Chicago; what happens in
318 Creative Writing
1875 could not possibly happen in 1925; what happens in the Mex-
ican section of San Antonio could not possibly happen in the wealthy
Anglo-American section of the same city. Narratives written as if
they happened vaguely somewhere at approximately some time to
people who make their living at some vaguely suggested business
may not always be bad; but they might be better if they used back-
ground creatively.
6. INFORMATION. The serious reader of modern fiction expects
it to give him information. That is one reason why background is
so important. The serious reader may expect fiction to teach him
something about history but not vague, generalized history. Prob-
ably he has a pretty good idea of the American scene in 1875, say;
but he expects his fiction to give him a precise view of Memphis,
Tennessee, or of Bangor, Maine, or of Portland, Oregon, in 1875.
Moreover, he would like to have his fiction teach him a little about
social classes and the means by which certain groups of people
make a living. He would want to know exact details about cotton
buying in Memphis in 1875, or the lumber trade in Bangor, or the
fishing industry in Portland; and he would want to know what
races of people, economic classes, social groups, and intellectual
types made up the population of Memphis, Bangor, and Portland
in 1875, 1900, or today. If he did not get this historical, social, and
economic information, he would ask, at any rate, for a picture of
the landscape, details of costume, manners of speech, and other
external details. If he were denied this, he would wish for some
new philosophical idea in his fiction, or some large truth about God
or mankind, or some analysis or criticism of society, or some revela-
tion about certain moral or political theories. And if he were denied
all this, he would wish, at least, for some increased knowledge of
child psychology, or the psychology of elderly people, or the psy-
chology of love, or abnormal psychology, or the psychology of the
college student, the college professor, or the college president.
One of the most significant distinctions between poor fiction and
good fiction today is that the former is almost barren of information,
and the latter is rich in it.
7. CHANGE. The fundamental element of all narrative is time.
The Substance of Fiction 319
A genuine narrative does not merely reveal or describe a static
situation; it tells what has occurred in time. Now, time is conceived
and measured by means of change. Accordingly, the first question
the fiction-writer must ask himself about his prospective story is,
What kind of change is to be effected in my story? The change may
be of various kinds:
a. It may be a change in the relationship of characters to one
another. A couple may be unmarried when the story opens, and
married when it closes; the hero may be a victim of oppression at
the beginning, and a victor at the end; he may be loved by others
at the beginning, and hated at the end.
b. The change may be in the relation between a character and
his environment. Robinson Crusoe is apparently at the mercy of
nature when he is shipwrecked, but as the story progresses he
becomes master; in the old Alger books the poor boy would come
to the city, where he would be duped and cheated on every hand
until he at last became knowing in the ways of New York; in the
old-fashioned picaresque novel, the hero would start life as a foot-
ball of fortune, and would end as a successful and wealthy man.
c. The change may be within a character himself a change
brought about by environment (as in Conrad's Heart of Dark-
ness), by other characters (as in Silas Marner, where Silas's whole
nature is softened by the presence of little Effie), or by deep
physical or spiritual experience (as in The Scarlet Letter and Mac-
beth). This type of change has always appealed most strongly to
critics, not only because it requires the most consummate skill on
the writer's part, but also because it is creation in the process, human
personality in the crucible, the actual labor throes by which all that
is significant in character comes into being.
d. The change may be in the reader's knowledge. On the most
elementary plane, this knowledge may involve nothing more than
knowing what happened. Did Robinson Crusoe get off his island at
last? Did the hero find the buried treasure? Did the detective ever
find out who committed the murder? Or it may involve elements in
character, in which there is a gradual revealing (as in Hamlet) of
the depths and complexities of a character. Or it may involve ele-
320 Creative Writing
ments of human nature and of society as in Vanity Fair or Babbitt
where the reader discovers, in the course of the story, some char-
acteristics of society at a certain time and place. Or it may involve
the reader's increasing insight into the laws of life, or his introduc-
tion to a new philosophy.
e. Finally, though this should probably be included under the
change in the relationship of characters, the change may be in the
knowledge which some characters in the story have about other
characters. In Tom Jones, for example, most of the action centers
about the way various people misunderstand Tom, but eventually
come to know him.
8. STRAIGHT NARRATIVE OR OBSTRUCTED NARRATIVE. The change
that occurs in every narrative may occur steadily, without interrup-
tion or obstruction from any source. Thus a boy and a girl may fall
in love at first sight, resolve to marry, and get married with never
any doubts, misunderstandings, jealousies, quarrels, parental ob-
jections, or financial difficulties. But that is not what usually hap-
pens, nor would it make a very interesting story in itself. Straight
narratives of this sort (for example, stories of travel, accounts of
hunting trips, newspaper stories, narratives about unusual experi-
ences ) derive any interest they may have from the intrinsic interest
of their subject, or from the subtlety and skill of their portrayal of
character, or from their descriptions or their style, or from the curi-
ous or unusual nature of the events they record. They are not in-
teresting just as narratives.
For the purposes of the fiction-writer who wishes to tell a story
that readers will enjoy for its own sake, obstructed narrative is es-
sential. The boy and the girl who fall in love do not immediately
become engaged and get married straightway, without doubt, dif-
ficulty, question, self -question, objection, delay, or obstruction from
any source; and their story would not be interesting if they did. The
fiction-writer makes their story interesting by throwing in all sorts
of obstructions, and letting the characters struggle to remove these
obstructions.
This kind of narrative may be conceived as a series of incidents
some of them tending toward a certain conclusion or result, and
The Substance of Fiction 3%1
some of them tending toward a different conclusion or result. Thus,
there is an interplay of what may be called positive and negative
forces. The positive forces have a common direction or movement
toward a certain end; the negative forces run counter to this trend,
or obstruct it. Suppose, for example, I leave my home to go to a
theatre downtown. I go out, get in my car, ride to the theatre district,
park my car, walk to the theatre, present my ticket, and go in. This
is straight narrative. But suppose the story went like this: I leave
my home in my car, but halfway to the theatre I discover that I have
forgotten my ticket, and must return home for it. Here is a positive
force moving in one direction, and a negative force obstructing it.
Suppose I go back and get my ticket, and start out once more and
run out of gasoline on the way. The positive force is obstructed by
another negative force. Then I get gasoline and start out again -
and before I have gone two blocks I find that I have a flat tire. Posi-
tive and negative again. The story might go on endlessly thus. All I
need to do is to think up more and more obstructions : an arrest for
speeding, a train blocking a street, a fire to be gone around, a minor
traffic accident, no parking place available near the theatre, and
so on.
Joseph Conrad's "Youth" uses this method in a very simple and
obvious form: the ship bound for the East is delayed by a whole
series of accidents that fall as obstructions to its successful voyage.
"Heart of Darkness" uses the same device, but a little more subtly.
The picaresque novel of the eighteenth century consisted almost ex-
clusively of this obstructed narrative; and most romantic novels of
the early nineteenth century consisted of very complicated obstruc-
tions to a main character's reaching rather simple objectives. Most
of Reade's The Cloister and the Hearth, for example, is an account
of an ingenious variety of obstructions that the young Erasmus met
in attempting a journey from Holland to Italy.
9. QUEST AND CONFLICT. Most books on fiction-writing say a great
deal about "conflict" in a story. But perhaps Miss Eudora Welty
came very near the whole truth when she said in the Atlantic for
March, 1949: "On some level all stories are stories of search." Per-
haps, however, "Quest" is a better word than "search." In most sto-
Creative Writing
ries, at any rate, someone is in quest of something. Someone is in
quest of a wife, a fortune, an honor, a murderer, a victory, truth,
righteousness, knowledge, power. Whenever anyone starts in quest
of anything, a story is begun.
Sometimes the quest is initiated out of a character's own desires
as when a character wishes to marry someone, or to find a buried
treasure, or to graduate from college, or to escape from prison or
from a desert island. And sometimes a quest, like greatness, is thrust
upon a character as when the necessity of avenging his father is
thrust upon Hamlet, or the necessity of saving the Roman Republic
is thrust upon Brutus, or when the necessity of making adjustments
to a new kind of world is thrust upon "The Daughters of the Late
Colonel" in Katherine Mansfield's story of that name. The quest may
be deliberate and self-conscious (as in Treasure Island), or it may
be unexpressed by the author and unrecognized by the characters
(as in Ellen Glasgow's Vein of Iron, in which the quest of all the
characters is to live a reasonably happy and decent life ) . Most sto-
ries and novels end with the quest either attained by the seeker, or
denied to him. But there are variations on the pattern. For example,
a story may be largely concerned with the fate of a character after
he has succeeded or failed in his quest; much of Shakespeare's Julius
Caesar is this sort of story, and so is that portion of Faulkner's The
Sound and the Fury which tells what happened to the boy Quentin
after the failure of his impossible love. Or a story may bring a char-
acter up to the point where he realizes that a quest, a hopeless quest,
lies before him and leave him there; Katherine Mansfield's "Miss
Brill" does this by letting us see the little old lady quite happy and
contented, and ending with an incident that makes her lose her hap-
piness and content forever. The same author's "Bliss" shows a wife
exquisitely happy in her marriage but realizing at the very end of
the story that her husband is in love with another woman. In both
these stories the quest is implicit in the end; the women in both sto-
ries thought they were securely anchored, but henceforth they must
drift without anchorage, though seeking one.
When a character pursues a quest, certain incidents show him on
the way to attaining it, and certain others may show him having dif-
The Substance of Fiction
ficulty in moving toward it. These are the positive and the negative
elements already mentioned. Sometimes the interplay of these two
elements does create a conflict. But to apply the word conflict to a
situation like that ( outlined previously ) in which a person going to
the theatre runs into various difficulties and delays, or even like that
in Conrad's "Youth," is employing the word rather loosely. Conflict
implies strife, and strife implies opposing wills.
Conflict may exist on one of three planes: (1) The action may de-
rive from the conflicting wills of two people ( or groups of people ) ,
as when police try to capture a criminal and the criminal tries to
prevent them from capturing him, or when one body of soldiers tries
to take a hill and another body tries to hold it, or when one person
tries to keep a secret and another tries to discover it, or when one
man tries to marry a girl and another man tries to marry the same
girl. (2) The action may derive from the conflicting wills of several
people ( or groups of people ) , as when a criminal is trying to escape,
the police are trying to capture him, another person is trying to make
an innocent person seem to be the criminal, and the innocent person
is trying to prove his innocence; or when one man is trying to marry
a certain girl, another man is trying to marry the same girl, and the
girl herself is trying to marry a third man. ( 3 ) The action may derive
from the conflicting wills within one person, as when a man is at-
tracted to two women at once, or a man wants to be honest but is
tempted to be dishonest, or a man wants to be brave but is afraid,
or a man is so incapable of making a choice between two objectives
that he chooses a third.
Many books and many stories have used conflicts such as these;
indeed, many people think that a story cannot exist without conflict.
To be sure, conflict does intensify interest in fiction, and is almost
a necessity in the "popular" stories and novels. But a story or a novel
may be very fine literature, and yet have no conflict in the literal
sense as Katherine Mansfield and Virginia Woolf have proved re-
peatedly.
10. PLOT. The commonest statement any teacher of writing hears
from his students is, "Oh, I can't invent plots!" The first answer to
that exclamation is, "You can write good stories without plot." And
Creative Writing
the second answer is, "Creating a plot is the simplest thing in the
world."
A writer creates a plot when he sets a character on a quest. That
is the essence of plot.
The quest may be for something insignificant; but if it is to hold
the reader's interest very long it must be for something that the char-
acter involved, or the reader himself, considers important.
The story of the quest may be told as straight narrative; but in any
story that hopes to attract willing readers, the^ story must be told as
obstructed narrative with positive and negative elements.
All the incidents in the story should have some relation (positive
or negative) to the central quest. (But sometimes, in a novel or a
very long story, irrelevant incidents may be included for the sake of
humor, character revelation, their intrinsic interest, the creation of
a certain emotional atmosphere, or conveying necessary exposition. )
If a writer can be sure that his narrative fulfills the four require-
ments just listed (Change, Obstructed Narrative, Quest, Conflict),
he can be sure that it has plot.
Perhaps it would be wise to mention here certain kinds of writing
that do not constitute plot-narrative. ( 1 ) Interesting characters who
talk together and do things, but who do not pursue some quest, do
not make a plot. (2) An interesting scene with typical characters
moving and speaking in it backstage in a theatre, on the bridge of
a ship, around a campfire on a cattle ranch, in a college classroom
does not make a plot. (3) An interesting situation in which char-
acters are depicted a married couple who are ill-matched, an oil
well just brought in on the place of an ignorant farmer, a blind stu-
dent at college, a child whose father has been murdered does not
make a plot. (4) An interesting incident that befalls a character
the sort of thing one might read about in a newspaper: a holdup, an
automobile accident, a fire, a drowning, an attack by a mad dog
does not make a plot. (5) A series of unrelated incidents that happen
to a single character as in the picaresque novel, where the hero
wanders about and runs into various adventures and misadventures
does not make a plot. (6) A quest for one thing that is attained,
only to be followed by a quest for another thing, and so on, does not
make a unified plot, but may make a series of plots.
The Substance of Fiction 385
11. COMPLICATIONS. Complications of plot are not a necessary
substance of fiction; but they are worth striving for in a narrative of
any length. Some devices for creating complications are the follow-
ing:
( 1 ) One device has already been mentioned; it is to have several
people with mutually conflicting objectives No. (2) in Section 9,
above.
(2) A writer may create two or more objectives, instead of just
one, for the main character to seek. Thus the hero may be trying to
marry a certain girl, gain a fortune, serve his country, and vindicate
himself of a false accusation all at the same time.
(3) There may be two or more persons, or groups of persons,
with different sorts of quests in the same story. In other words, a
story may have a plot and subplots. Thus a love affair of one young
woman might be interesting; but adding the story of her sister's love
affair going on simultaneously might make the narrative still more
interesting. Shakespeare includes subplots in many of his plays;
Midsummer Night's Dream consists of at least five series of actions
running along together, and having characters crossing over from
one to the other. Some skill is required, of course, for the several
plots to be knit together by having characters in one be important
or influential in the others.
(4) An apparently insignificant or unimportant character, inci-
dent, or object introduced early in the story may turn out to have a
tremendous importance later on. Thus, in A Tale of Two Cities, the
nurse and Jeremy Cruncher are apparently insignificant characters
throughout much of the novel yet they play an absolutely essential
part at the crucial moment. In Romeo and Juliet the comparatively
trivial incident in which an illiterate servant asks a bystander to read
a note for him results in the entire tragedy of the play. And in Lady
Windermere's Fan the fan is indispensable at the turning point of
the action.
EXERCISES
1. Feeling.
Turn back to the exercises suggested for Divisions II and III of
the preceding chapter, and do some that you have not already done.
386 Creative Writing
2. Subject.
a. In the text, certain generalized worlds of the college student
were mentioned. For each of these general worlds, mention specific
worlds of your own.
b. What is your predominant feeling about each of the specific
worlds that you have just mentioned?
c. Which of your specific worlds seem to you rather more un-
usual than others? Have you had any unusual experiences (physical,
mental, emotional) in the last week or so? What are they? Would
any of them be an interesting subject for a story?
d. Could any of the worlds or the experiences you have just men-
tioned furnish subjects for stories on "two levels"? Turn back to the
story topics suggested in the exercises of preceding chapters, and
decide which ones might become stories on "two levels."
3. Theme.
a. In one rather long but precisely worded sentence, express at
least one of your fundamental ideas (not feelings) about each of the
following:
women; men; small girls; small boys; some course you are
taking or have taken in college; the principal defect of your
college; the students of your college; the principal weakness of
the home training you have received; the principal defect of the
career you have planned; patriotism; sexual morality; why most
people go to church; destiny; war; socialism; communism; the
profit motive in business; private charity; public charity; ideal-
ism.
b. Turn back to the exercises on p. 306, and reconsider them.
c. Find subjects for the following themes (all taken from the
Maxims of La Rochefoucauld ) :
Passion often makes able men foolish, and foolish men able.
The constancy of wise men is only the art of suppressing the
agitation of their hearts.
In order to establish oneself in the world, one must do all
one can to seem established.
In the business of life we please more often by our faults
than by our virtues.
Great names lower instead of elevating people who do not
know how to support them.
People often do good in order to be able to do evil with
impunity.
The Substance of Fiction 327
We are so accustomed to disguising ourselves from others
that at last we disguise ourselves from ourselves.
There are people who would never have loved if they had
never heard of love.
It is not enough for one to have good qualities; one must
make use of them.
Weak persons cannot be sincere.
4. Characters.
a. For about twenty of the stories suggested in the lists, tell who
the central characters would be.
b and c. Characterize about ten of your acquaintances (choose
those who are least similar to one another) and try to express the
types to which they belong. In characterizing the ten, use for each
one all the types mentioned in the text (period of life, sex, ge-
ographical region, race, occupation, social class, manner of thinking
or feeling).
Which ones of these characters seem most individualized?
d. Which ones of the characters you have just described seem to
be interesting in themselves, just as they are that is, which ones
might be better left as mere static characters?
e. How might the personal traits of the people mentioned below
grow into quite different (not necessarily opposite) traits under the
circumstances mentioned?
A rebellious girl is forced to suffer hardships.
The same girl falls into a life of wealth and luxury.
A gay but foolish man marries a phlegmatic woman.
The same man marries a serious, ambitious woman.
The same man marries a foolish, vain woman.
Any of the women just mentioned marries the same man.
A wise and thoughtful author becomes a popular success.
The same man is never able to become a popular success.
A somewhat stupid girl goes to college.
The same girl stays at home on the farm.
A very kind man goes to war.
The same man becomes a social service worker.
5. Background.
From the lists of stories suggested in this book, choose about five
that might profit by having their backgrounds developed fully.
Briefly describe the backgrounds that you might use.
328 Creative Writing
6. Information.
List several fields of information that you have and that you
think your teacher probably does not have.
See also the very first exercises given for Chapter XV.
7. Change.
Plan five different stories showing five different kinds of change
which may grow out of each of the following situations:
A young preacher from the city goes to take charge of a church
in a small village.
Because of poverty and ill health, an old farmer has to go to
the city and live with his daughter, whose husband is well-to-do.
8. Straight Narrative or Obstructed Narrative.
a. Plan straight narratives (that would be interesting because of
their emotional, psychological, social, philosophic, or imaginative ap-
peal) about each of the following:
Two hours at a dance; half an hour in a doctor's waiting
room; a conference with a professor; a scene with your
mother (if you are a young woman) after you have come
home late at night; a scene with your father after you have
done something that displeased him; half an hour shopping
in a grocery store; meeting an old lover on the street; making
a decision to do something that you know you shouldn't do;
a night in a sick-bed; a conversation with a fellow passenger
on a bus or train; a conversation with a classmate whom you
do not know well.
b. Make a list of the imagined obstructions which might delay the
smooth progress of the straight narratives suggested below:
A love affair between college students.
A six-day voyage.
A one-day train trip.
A new job.
An interview with a celebrity.
Finding a boarding place.
A girl trying to marry a man for his money.
A man trying to escape the unwelcome attentions of a young
woman who has taken a fancy to him.
The problems of a young man who has just been elected to
office on the reform ticket.
The problems of a young man who has graduated from an
The Substance of Fiction 3%9
agricultural school and gone back to his native county to start
farming.
c. If the narratives just listed are unsatisfactory, choose narratives
suggested in any of the other lists in this book.
9. Quest and Conflict.
a. Choose several of the characters you have worked with in
Exercise 4, above, and give them quests. Can you think of several
simultaneous quests for any one of them? Can you imagine a story
in which two or three of the characters would have the same quest?
conflicting quests?
b. From any of the narratives suggested anywhere in this book,
choose two or three in which each of the three types of conflict
could be used.
c. Choose two or three in which all three types of conflict could
be used in a single story.
10. Plot.
a. From one of the quests you have mentioned in Exercise 9,
above, work out a plot that would satisfy the requirements out-
lined in the text.
b. Analyze the plot, or lack of plot, in each of ten stories that
you have read in your life.
11. Complications.
a. Try to remember stories, plays, or novels which use one or
another of the four types of complication mentioned in the text.
b. Choose several stories that you have written or planned, and
try to give them complications. Do the same for stories that your
classmates, or other people, have written.
CHAPTER XVII
Composing the Narrative
Before an author comes to the actual moment of starting to write
his narrative, he must do a good deal of thinking about it. Perhaps
he will not work out every detail, or even make an outline; but he
will almost certainly compose, in his mind, a generalized picture of
what he is going to do. He is like a painter who cannot predict every
detail he will make in a contemplated picture, but who knows be-
forehand what his general compositional structure will be.
The present chapter deals with that very critical period between
the time when a writer says to himself, "I want to write a story" or
"I want to write a story about that" and the time when he actually
writes the first sentence of the story. It is granted that no two writers
compose in the same way. It is granted, furthermore, that writing fic-
tion is not a process for which recipes can be given like recipes for
making a cake; something else is required of a writer in addition to
the ability to follow directions. It is granted, finally, that the process
of composition is not always a step-by-step affair, as it must be
treated in the following pages; it is more often a simultaneous, almost
intuitive, juggling of several elements all at once. Nevertheless, the
advice given here may be serviceable if only by way of suggestion.
1. TWO METHODS OF COMPOSING. It must be admitted at once that,
from reader standpoint, there are three kinds of fiction: fiction for
intelligent, critical, thoughtful people who have imagination and
good taste, and who want to read fiction of depth, sincerity, origi-
nality, and imagination; fiction for people who want merely to be
amused, who want something to pass the time without their having
to think; and fiction that appeals to both the first and the second
group, that the thoughtful people can enjoy and the other people (in
their various gradations down to the mere barber-shop reader) can
330
Composing the Narrative 331
use as a method of escape. Some fiction ( the kind that gets into the
collections of "Best" stories annually) exists for a very small group
of the so-called intelligentsia; some fiction (the kind that gets into
the great "slick-paper" magazines ) exists for the great masses of peo-
ple who do not care to think, ever; and some ( like that of Heming-
way, Steinbeck, Lewis, Dreiser, Bennett, Dickens) exists for all
levels of readers. We might say that the first type of fiction consists
of ingredients A, the second type of ingredients B, and the third type
of ingredients A and B.
The chief elements in A are feeling, idea, and imagination; the
chief elements in B are incident, plot, and character ( though not the
subtleties of character that serve to compose the psychological ideas
of the first type). The writer should learn which of these types of
ingredients appeal to him most. If he likes A, he will start composing
from a feeling, a thought, or a background; if he likes B, he will
start composing from a character, a situation, an incident, or a plot.
2. STARTING FROM A FEELING. One can have feelings about con-
crete things about a person, a scene, a town, a community, an ani-
mal, a machine; one can have a feeling about something equally real
but less concrete about a time in history, a class of people, a profes-
sion or way of life, a war, an economic depression, old age; and one
can have a feeling about abstractions about destiny, chance, man's
relation to God and to his fellow man, democracy, communism, so-
cialism, poverty, justice. Even if he thinks he has no feeling about
some of these matters, a writer should carefully analyze himself and
his reactions ( as advised in a previous chapter ) ; the chances are at
least ten to one that he will discover he does have a feeling about
them, after all. The feeling need not be intense and passionate; it
need only be real and recognizable.
Having discovered his feeling about some subject, the writer may
begin composing his narrative in the following way:
a. First, he translates the feeling into terms of theme, or idea.
For example, if his feeling could be expressed in words like this: "I
feel the mechanical, efficient coldness of most hospitals," he trans-
lates the feeling into an idea: "Most hospitals are mechanical, ef-
ficient, and cold." If he can say, "I feel the romantic glamour of the
332 Creative Writing
Middle Ages," he translates the feeling into an idea: "The Middle
Ages were a time of romantic glamour." Or if he can say, "I feel that
a destiny must be shaping men's affairs," he translates the feeling
into an idea: "Destiny shapes men's affairs." Feeling must become
philosophical in at least this elementary way before it can become a
good starting point for fiction. That was the implication of Section
3 of the preceding chapter, where it was said: "Really good fiction
cannot exist without philosophical content, without theme."
b. Next, if his feeling concerns, not some concrete thing, but a
condition or an abstraction, he must express the condition or the ab-
straction concretely. For example, if he has a feeling about war, he
must visualize war in terms of some specific war, and of some specific
theatre of that war. If he has a feeling about destiny, he must visual-
ize destiny in terms of some specific and concrete case, some person
or incident. If he has a feeling about some way of life, he must visu-
alize that way of life in terms of certain people practicing it. Art is
concrete; it deals with abstractions only when they can be made
concrete.
All this means that the writer must decide very early what the
background of his narrative is to be. He must decide its time and
place. (Here the writer should re-read and try to apply what was
said in Section 2 of the preceding chapter. )
c. Next, the writer should recall what was said about change in
the preceding chapter. Presumably, the main change that occurs will
be in the way the reader, or some character in the narrative, feels
about the subject. The writer's purpose is to make the character or
the reader change from having no feeling, or a mistaken feeling,
about the subject, and adopt the feeling that the writer has about it.
This may be accomplished in several ways: (1) The writer can
gradually accumulate details that eventually make the reader feel
as the writer wishes. (2) The writer can begin by allowing the
reader, or the main character in the story, to feel a certain way on
the subject, and then gradually have him change to feeling the op-
posite way as a youth may go to war feeling that it is romantic but
gradually change to feeling that it is brutal. (3) The writer may take
his reader, or his main character, through a whole series of feelings
Composing the Narrative 333
until the writer's own feeling is reached as when a youth goes to
war feeling that it is romantic, and then comes to feel that it helps
build heroic characters, and then that it is a necessary evil, and then
that it is a wholly unnecessary evil, and finally that it is downright
brutal and murderous.
d. About this time the writer should choose or invent a character
who will be the central figure of the story. This character may be
one of three types: (1) He may be a person who is conceived as
merely human, and who excites human feelings of sympathy, ad-
miration, contempt, pity, and so on just as would any real person.
Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Tom Jones, Becky Sharp are such
persons. (2) He may be a person who symbolizes some abstraction
or some condition, and who attracts to himself the feeling the reader
is expected to have about the subject itself as Sister Carrie rep-
resents all poor working girls in the city, as George Babbitt repre-
sents the enthusiastic American businessman, or as Tom Sawyer rep-
resents the American boy. (3) Occasionally the main character is
only an emotional intermediary whose feelings about the subject are
supposed to be reflected in the reader as with George in Heming-
way's "The Killers," and Nick in Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby.
e. The central figure must be started on a quest. Almost any kind
of quest will do; it need not be closely related to the feeling the
writer is trying to create. In Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, for
example, the writer's main purpose is to give the reader a certain
feeling about aristocratic New York society; but the quest of the
main character is merely to marry a certain girl.
f. Obstructions must be invented so that the main character will
not reach his goal, or fail to reach it, too soon.
g. Meanwhile, the writer should be inventing characters to typify,
or personify, various aspects of the subject. Suppose, as in an ex-
ample already given, a writer is trying to give a feeling, or convey
an idea, about the mechanical and efficient coldness of hospitals. He
will invent a nurse, a house doctor, and an orderly who are mechani-
cal, efficient, and cold. Or suppose he is trying to give a feeling about
poverty in some city. He will invent characters who typify the pov-
erty-stricken child, the poverty-stricken woman, and the poverty-
334 Creative Writing
stricken man; perhaps he will invent several types of each say, the
pitiful poverty-stricken child and the poverty-stricken juvenile de-
linquent; the honest and hard-working poverty-stricken woman and
the hard and immoral poverty-stricken woman; the man who is a
victim of hard luck, and the man whose own vices have brought him
misfortune. Obviously, some of these characters will be used to rouse
a feeling in the reader; some will be used to further the main char-
acter's quest; and some will be used to obstruct the main character's
quest.
By the time the writer has invented such characters, chosen a
central one, given him a quest, thought of obstructions that will
hinder his quest, located the scene precisely, and decided what
method of accomplishing a change in the reader's feeling he is going
to use the story begins to write itself.
h. The writer should consider the possibility, or the advisability,
of introducing conflict and complications (see Sections 9 and 11 of
the previous chapter ) into the story.
3. STARTING FROM A THEME. Sometimes one has an idea ( a philo-
sophic concept, an intellectual judgment, a critical analysis, a gen-
eralization about some aspect of life) that he wishes to express in
fictional form. Most of Hawthorne's short stories were originally con-
ceived ( as his notebooks testify ) as philosophic ideas; Galsworthy's
novels and plays are usually based on some sociological idea; so are
Sinclair Lewis's; so are John Dos Passes' and so on. Since ideas and
feelings are so closely related (see Section 2 "a" above) a writer
may compose a narrative around a theme by following the procedure
just outlined in Section 2. As a special bit of additional advice, the
writer starting from a theme will often do well to let the reader begin
by believing the negative of the theme. If the theme is to be, for ex-
ample, that "People may repent, but they do not change," the writer
would begin by making the reader think that some character who
repents early in the story has really changed; then, gradually, by the
accumulation of evidence, the reader would be brought to see the
falsity of his original belief. This device is usually helpful, but is not
essential; the devices mentioned under 'V of Section 2 above are
also useful.
Composing the Narrative 335
4. STARTING FROM BACKGROUND. Some places or times or social
groups or ways of life cry aloud for stories to be written about them.
The plains of North Dakota, many places in China, Mexico, the
Middle Ages and the eighteenth century, gangsters and cowboys,
doctors and nurses, scenes of war these are the kinds of back-
grounds that demand stories for themselves.
The process by which a narrative is composed from a setting is
much the same as that outlined above for feeling or theme. In par-
ticular, the writer should:
a. Have a feeling about the background.
b. Develop the feeling into a theme.
c. Invent characters typical of the background or in contrast to it.
d. Perhaps decide that the change that is to occur in the narrative
will involve the relationship between character and background.
Possible changes that might occur in such a relationship are these:
( 1 ) The main character begins by being out of harmony with the
background, but adjusts himself to it; (2) the character begins by
being out of harmony with the background, and changes the back-
ground to make it more harmonious with himself; ( 3 ) the character
begins by being out of harmony with the background, and is de-
stroyed by it (literally or figuratively); (4) the character begins in
harmony with the background, but ends out of harmony with it; ( 5 )
there are alternations of all these situations, with the character in
harmony and out of harmony again and again, or in harmony or out
of harmony with certain aspects of the background.
EXERCISES
1. Two Methods of Composing.
a. Study the stories in The Best American Short Stories collection
for some recent year, in Harper's and Atlantic magazines, in the
Partisan Review and Kenyon Review, and in the Saturday Evening
Post and Ladies Home Journal. What ingredients of these stories
Were probably of most concern to the writers?
b. Omitting financial considerations, tell which of the publica-
tions just mentioned you would most like your work to appear in.
Why?
336 Creative Writing
2. Starting from a Feeling.
Following the plan outlined in the text, compose a story on one
or more of the following subjects:
The town or community you live in.
Your cat or dog or horse or other pet.
A relative.
College life.
Some job you have held.
The time of your parents' childhood.
True Christianity.
True morality.
Poverty.
3. Starting from a Theme.
Following the plan outlined in the text, compose a story on one
or more of the following subjects:
Any of the subjects mentioned in the preceding exercise.
Any of the following ideas:
Before a man marries, his love belongs to his parents; after
he marries, it belongs to his wife.
A man who has gold but no knowledge has little.
What one fool spoils, a thousand wise men cannot repair.
Lies uttered in order to make peace are not forbidden.
The thief becomes law-abiding when he can steal no more.
4. Starting from Background.
a. Following the plan outlined in the text, compose a story on
one or more of the following subjects:
Your college campus.
Your community.
The rural area with which you are best acquainted.
The poorest social class which you know fairly well.
The richest social class which you know fairly well.
Some job you have held.
Your parents' childhood.
b. Outline the four or five kinds of changes that might occur in
the relationship between character and environment in the follow-
ing situations:
A country boy (or girl) comes to live with well-to-do (or
poor) relatives in a large city.
A city boy (or girl) comes to live with well-to-do (or poor)
relatives in the country.
Composing the Narrative 337
The daughter of a wealthy city family marries the son of
a small businessman in a country village, and goes to live in
the village.
A foreign student (young man or young woman) comes to
an American university as an exchange student.
CHAPTER XVIII
Composing the Narrative (Continued)
The suggestions in the preceding chapter dealt with the problem of
composition when the narrative-basis is a generalized subject. The
present chapter deals with composition when the subject is more
specific.
Furthermore, the kind of story discussed in the preceding chapter,
if handled with technical skill, is likely to belong to the Chekhovian
type of story, and to appeal to the more discerning elements of
modern criticism. The kind of story discussed in the present chapter
is more likely to belong to the Maupassantian type, and it may or
may not be good literature. It is the kind of fiction that may have no
higher ambition than to help the reader pass away the time. On the
other hand, the two kinds of fiction may unite in one narrative, which
will be all the better for the union.
5. STARTING FROM CHARACTER. Some people a writer meets, or
dreams of, or invents, seem designed purposely to go into fiction.
The difficulty comes when the writer tries to make a narrative out of
the mere character. The following suggestions may help solve this
difficulty:
a. The writer should decide whether his character is interesting
primarily because he is typical, or because he is unique.
b. If he is primarily typical, of what is he chiefly typical? Of a
period of life, a sex, a time in history, a geographical region, a race,
a trade or profession, a social class, a manner of thinking or acting
or feeling, or what?
c. When the answer to the question just asked is found, the next
step is to discover what one feels or thinks about the general subject
of which the character is a typical example. From here, one proceeds
338
Composing the Narrative 339
along the steps outlined in the preceding chapter for generalized
subjects.
d. But if the character is unique, not typical, the writer's first step
should probably be to determine the one or two chief character traits
of the fictional character. Is he romantic, idealistic, egotistical, selfish,
religious, mercenary, ambitious, lustful, courageous, cowardly, gen-
erous, or what? Sometimes the chief characteristic is that there is no
chief characteristic or there may be several equally strong char-
acteristics in conflict with one another. Meredith has a novel in
which he names the chief trait of his chief character: The Egoist.
Maupassant has "The Coward" and "The Enthusiast"; Hawthorne
has "The Ambitious Guest"; Mansfield, "Such a Sweet Old Lady";
D. H. Lawrence, "The Lovely Lady."
e. Next, the character should be placed in one of the following
situations:
( 1 ) He may be placed in a situation (or environment) where his
chief trait will have an opportunity to operate extensively, and so re-
veal itself. This is a particularly useful device when the chief trait is
admirable. Thus a young woman who has a way with children may
be made a teacher of elementary grades; a scholarly young man may
become a college teacher; a generous man may become a millionaire;
a mercenary man may go into some shady business; a courageous
man may join the Marines. The narrative problem here is to create
interest by means of plot, obstructed narrative, conflicts, and com-
plications ( see pp. 319-325 ) . Perhaps the suggestions given at the
end of the preceding chapter, concerning relation of character to
environment, may also be helpful.
( 2 ) The character may be placed in a situation ( or environment )
out of harmony with his chief trait. This is, perhaps, an easier solu-
tion to the problem than the preceding. Shakespeare put the thought-
ful Hamlet in a situation where he had to act, not merely think; he
put the proud and egotistical King Lear in a situation where he was
humiliated; he put the ambitious Macbeth in a situation where he
was called on to exercise the highest loyalty that Shakespeare knew,
loyalty to the king. Stephen Crane took a coward to war in The Red
Badge of Courage; George Meredith had his egoist in love in The
340 Creative Writing
Egoist. Here again the narrative problem is to create one of the kinds
of change outlined on pp. 318-319, and to make the narrative inter-
esting by plot, obstructed narrative, conflict, and complications.
6. STARTING FROM SITUATION. Sometimes a writer comes across,
in real life, a situation which strikes him as having narrative possi-
bilities, or he invents such a situation from a hint or suggestion in
real life. The situation should be considered as a static condition that
has resulted from previous action, and that may result in succeeding
action. Any of the following may be regarded as a situation: A
woman has married a man she does not love; a man is in love with
a woman of another race; a man knows he has only two months to
live; a wealthy old lady finds her fortune suddenly gone; a girl is in
love with a man to whom her family intensely objects.
To make a story out of this sort of material, the writer may take the
following steps:
a. He should decide whether the situation he has in mind is a be-
ginning, a middle, or an end of a narrative. Shall he tell how the
situation came about? Or shall he tell what results from the situa-
tion? Or shall he do both? For example, shall he use a good part of
his narrative to show how the wealthy old lady mentioned above
lost her money? Or shall he concentrate on what happens to her, now
that she has lost it? Or shall he do both? Precise answers to these
questions are impossible here. The writer's tastes, abilities, and pro-
spective readers, and the nature of the situations themselves, will de-
termine the answers.
b. Next, the writer may proceed (as directed in the preceding
chapter) to build a narrative from feeling, theme, or background;
or he could concentrate on one or two of the characters involved
in the situation, and then proceed as suggested in the preceding sec-
tion.
7. STARTING FROM INCIDENT. Sometimes a writer may happen
upon an incident or event in his daily life which, he thinks, has in it
the elements or the possibilities of a story. It may be an item in the
paper, a chance remark heard on a street corner, a significant look
passed between a man and a woman, a "personal" in the advertising
column of a journal, or some other such contribution to the writer's
Composing the Narrative 841
store of observations and experiences. As he waits on the corner, he
may see a little girl come up to the old woman selling papers nearby,
and tell her something, whereupon the old woman begins to weep.
Sitting in the subway, he may see a burly gentleman slowly lift a
long blonde hair from his coat-sleeve, deposit the hair in the aisle of
the car, and smile. Walking along the street, he may see an urchin
suddenly assume a pitiful expression, sidle up to a well-dressed gen-
tleman, beg for money and, on being refused, run back and start
laughing and romping with other urchins on the street corner. Every
person with eyes in his head and senses alert notices a dozen such
incidents every day.
But how to make them into a story? More lively inventive power,
more intuition about character, more vision to perceive a whole
situation in a minor incident are required for the writer starting with
an incident than starting from any other point. Perhaps the best
thing the writer can do is to try to translate the incident into terms
of character or situation, and proceed from that point, as advised in
the first sections of this chapter. For example, he may see as chiefly
important in the incident of the newspaper woman and the little
girl, the character of the woman or the character of the child. Or he
may invent details of the situation: What are the broad aspects of
the situation under which the woman and the child live, and what
specific happening has the child reported to make her mother weep?
Or what are the broad aspects of the situation under which the
gentleman in the subway acquired the long blonde hair on his
sleeve? Did the hair belong to his wife, a sweetheart, a mistress?
And, if either of the latter two, who is she? And who is he? And
where is he going now? All this boils down to two questions that the
writer must practically always ask himself when he tries to start a
story from an incident: ( 1 ) What is the general situation of which
this incident is a part? (2) What immediately preceded, and what
will immediately follow, the incident?
8. STARTING FROM A COMPLETE STORY IDEA. Sometimes a story
comes to a writer almost full-blown. For example: Parents work,
slave, and deprive themselves of necessities in order to send their
son to college; then he dies a month after he graduates. Or the prodi-
31$ Creative Writing
gal son returns home, but soon leaves on account of his father's too
'officious solicitude about him. Or a politician has a mistress who, on
the eve of an election, threatens to denounce him; he has her killed.
These are complete stories in themselves. About all the writer
need do is to visualize each of them as a series of scenes. If he wishes,
in addition, to bring in obstructions, conflicts, and complications, he
may do so; if he wishes to develop characters, portray a feeling, or
present a theme, he may do so. But essentially his work is cut out
for him already.
9. THE ACTUAL START. Even though the writer has composed in
his mind the general scheme of his narrative, a major problem re-
mains. It is to know exactly how to begin, how to trigger the story
off, how to get it in motion.
a. One must visualize story-writing as something like using a
microscope. One starts out with a low-power lens covering a large
general field; then one switches to a high-power lens concentrating
on a small part of that field. Certain general circumstances surround
( or constitute ) every story. They include time, place, general condi-
tion or situation in which characters find themselves, interrelation-
ship of characters, interrelationship of characters and environment,
and the like. By and large, these general circumstances represent
a virtually static condition, or at least a condition that has been mov-
ing along in the same direction for a considerable time.
b. Into the midst of these large, general, static circumstances
comes a spark of provocation, an inciting force, something new after
which something else new is bound to happen. Or, to change the fig-
ure, the relatively static general situation visualized as fiction mate-
rial is given a shove, an impulsion, that sets it moving forward or,
if it has already been moving, changes the direction of its move-
ment. This is the real beginning of any story. For example: Three
cats are in one room, a dog is in an adjoining room, and a closed
door stands between them. These are general circumstances, a static
situation that may remain unchanged indefinitely. But someone
opens the door, and lets the dog into the room with the cats. This is
the initial shove, or impulsion, or inciting force, or spark of provoca-
Composing the Narrative 31$
tion, or something new after which something else new is bound to
happen. This is the beginning of the story.
Or you are going to college routinely in a normal and unspectacu-
lar way. This is a generalized, relatively static situation. But suddenly
both your mother and your father are killed in an automobile wreck.
This again is the beginning of a story.
A recent number of the Saturday Evening Post has stories that
begin thus:
An ordinary American family is seen relaxing after dinner [gen-
eral circumstances]; then the wife suddenly tells her husband that
the ladies in the neighborhood have decided that he must run for
president of the local Parent-Teachers Association, a position nor-
mally reserved for women [shove or spark that starts the story].
A wealthy rancher in Oregon has working for him a young cow-
boy who is in love with the rancher's daughter, who is also more or
less in love with the cowboy [general circumstances]; then, in a sud-
den fit of pique, the foreman of the ranch fires the cowboy and makes
him leave the ranch [shove or spark that starts the story].
A young American naval attache in Istanbul is living a fairly nor-
mal life there [general circumstances]; then a mysterious Turkish
girl whom he has never seen before accosts him on the street and
pleads with him to meet her at the public fountain next day so that
she can give him some very important information [shove or spark
that starts the story].
The shove or spark of a story grows out of one of the following:
(1) An accidental happening to the character (or characters)
meant to be central in the story. The shipwrecks that initiate the real
stories in Robinson Crusoe and in the Lilliput adventure of Gullivers
Travels are accidents of this sort. So is Silas Marner's finding the
child Effie; so is Mowgli's escape from the tiger to the wolf's den in
the Jungle Book.
( 2 ) A new happening that results from a more or less natural de-
velopment, growth, or change. The death of the old colonel in "The
Daughters of the Late Colonel" is an example; so is the return of
the young couple to America in The Silver Cord. One can think of
844 Creative Writing
many examples in real life: A depression comes, and a character
begins to suffer hardships; old age comes, and a character has to ad-
just his life to it; a war comes, and a young man has to join the
armed forces; a couple marry and have a baby. Sometimes a writer
has trouble with this kind of beginning because the developments
( as with the depression and old age in the examples just mentioned )
occur too slowly to be represented as dramatic narrative scenes.
(3) An action by a character. Sometimes a character virtually
outside the story may give the initial shove that sets the action
going as does the ghost in Hamlet. Or sometimes an important
character within the story may give the shove that starts the story
as do the rebellious Percies in Henry IV.
(a) A character may initiate action because he has developed a
desire ( or sometimes a mere whim ) to bring about a change in his
life, the lives of other people, or certain conditions or situations
about him. It is such a desire that moves the murderer in Poe's "The
Cask of Amontillado" and the good citizens who chase out the
riffraff in Harte's "The Outcasts of Poker Flat."
(b) A character may initiate action out of no actual desire, but
from a sense of moral obligation as with Don Quixote who sets out
to do what he conceives his knightly duty, or the king and his court
who renounce love at the beginning of Love's Labour's Lost, or
the convict who aids the boy who was kind to him in Great Expecta-
tions.
( c ) A character may initiate action by having it forced upon him,
often in the form of a decision he must make. But here it may be
that the forcing is being done through the desire or the moral obliga-
tion of other characters, so that this means is really not valid. It is
the Hamlet situation, or the situation in The Silver Cord, where four
people have action forced upon them because of the selfish desires
of old Mrs. Phelps.
( d ) A character may initiate action by continuing to behave in an
ordinary and habitual way that suddenly becomes vitally significant.
But here too the narrative significance will usuallv depend upon
some very unusual ( or accidental ) circumstance. Thus, in Maupas-
sant's "A Piece of String," the old man's picking up a piece of string
Composing the Narrative
(ordinary behavior) would not have resulted in a story except that
a rich man had that very day lost a purse with a large sum of money
near the place where the string was picked up.
To see how these generalizations about beginnings may be ap-
plied to almost any commonplace situation in order to make it into
the beginning of a story, let us take this situation: "A girl is a senior
in college." From this situation the following eleven different begin-
nings may be developed.
1. Her parents are both killed in the same automobile wreck.
(Accident.)
2. She graduates from college and has to face the problem of
getting a job. ( Natural development. )
3. She desires to marry a certain young man. (Action derived
from a characters desire. )
4. She would like to marry, but feels obligated first to pay. off a
debt that her father has contracted in order to send her to college.
( Moral obligation. )
5. Just when she graduates and is about to marry the young man,
she is offered a lucrative and glamorous job in Paris. (Some sort
of action forced upon her, a decision to be made. )
6. She is studying in the library, happens to be seated by a young
man she has never noticed before, gets to talking with him, goes
with him to get a cup of coffee, finds him likable, falls in love with
him. ( Ordinary behavior leading to a significant event. )
All these situations but the first could be varied by having the
action initiated, not by herself, but by someone else:
1. Just as she graduates from college, her mother dies, and the
daughter automatically takes over management of the household.
( Natural development. )
2. Her parents desire her to marry a certain young man. (Action
derived from a character's desire.)
3. Her father insists that she help him pay off his debt before she
marries. ( Moral obligation. )
4. She is strongly urged by her parents to take one of the jobs
offered her, in preference to the other. (Action forced upon her.)
5. The young man by whom she happens to study in the library
346 Creative Writing
starts a conversation, asks her to go have coffee with him, asks for a
date, falls in love with her, persuades her to marry him. ( Ordinary
behavior leading to a significant event. )
Though none of the eleven stories suggested here may be really
remarkable for originality, the point should be obvious. It is that
the most ordinary of situations imaginable has in it the beginnings of
a story.
10. ENDING THE NARRATIVE. The problem of endings was dis-
cussed in Chapter XIII, where recommendations of the probable or
inevitable ending, and warnings against the surprise ending, were
given. We should consider the ending here in connection with what
we know about obstructed narrative. In simple terms, the obstructed
narrative consists of an alternating series of pleasant-unpleasant-
pleasant-unpleasant things happening to the characters in whom the
reader is most interested. If the story stops on a pleasant happening,
with no unpleasant happenings in the foreseeable future, the story
is said to have a happy ending. If it stops on unpleasant happenings,
with no important pleasant happenings within the foreseeable fu-
ture, the story is said to have an unhappy ending.
Happy endings are most common, best liked, and, as a rule, the
most advisable for the writer. Indeed, so fine a critic, philosopher,
and scholar as Joseph Wood Krutch remarks, "All works of art which
deserve their name have a happy end/' Still, it would be very diffi-
cult to find anything resembling a happy end in some of Conrad's
work ( "Heart of Darkness" and Lord Jim, for example ) , in some of
Hardy's, and even in so fine a work of art as The Old Wives' Tale.
On the other hand, there is little excuse for the deliberate killing off
of characters, or deliberately bringing disaster on characters, just to
win a tear from the reader, when there is no sense of inevitability
or probability leading straight through the story to the unhappy end.
If one cannot have a happy ending to his narrative, he may strive
for the more difficult happy-unhappy ending. This is an ending in
which disaster overtakes the characters whom we most like, but in
which there is some element of consolation. This consolation derives
from one of several sources: (1) A spiritual triumph of the individ-
ual despite his physical disaster (as with the thief hanging on the
Composing the Narrative 347
cross to the right of Christ's, and the death of Carton in A Tale of
Two Cities). (2) A compensatory defeat of those who have defeated
the people the reader most likes in the story ( as in For Whom the
Bell Tolls). (3) A feeling by the reader that the situation has become
so irredeemably bad that death for all concerned is the most merci-
ful solution (as in the story of Samson and King Lear). (4) An
accomplishment of some good result through the sacrifice of some
character the reader likes (as in Kipling's "The Miracle of Purun
Baghat" and Romeo and Juliet). Sometimes several of these sources
of consolation exist in the same ending. The ending of Hamlet, for
example, contains the consolation of (1), (2), and (3); so does
King Lear; and A Tale of Two Cities ends with the consolations of
(1), (2), and (4).
EXERCISES
5. Starting from Character.
The instructor may have each member of the class write on three
sheets of paper short character sketches of three different people.
All these papers may then be jumbled together, and afterward
redistributed so that each student gets three character sketches
different from the ones he wrote. At least two of these should be
worked into stories in the manner outlined in the text.
Or the student may take two characters of his own invention,
and work one of them into a story by placing him in a congenial
environment, and the other into a story by placing him in an un-
congenial environment.
6. Starting from Situation.
Following the plan outlined in the text, construct a story from
one of the following situations:
A young farmer must always leave his sweetheart just at night-
fall in order to go home and attend to his cow.
Of twin sisters, one goes through college successfully, and the
other has refused to go to college.
A brilliant and forceful young wife adores her husband with-
out realizing that he is shallow and weak.
A wife thinks constantly of the man she could have married.
One of your classmates, who has seemed to be quite worldly,
has stopped school suddenly and entered a convent.
7.
Creative Writing
Starting from Incident.
Following the plan outlined in the text, construct a story from
one of the following incidents:
You go out at night to put your car in the garage, and find a
strange woman sitting in the car.
You go out on your front porch at night, hear a scuffling on
the doorstep, and see a man coming up the steps on all fours.
At the Public Library you notice across the table from you a
young woman with the most beautiful hands you have ever seen.
In a restaurant a person who has been .eating at another table
and staring at you while you eat gets up when you get up, and
follows you (or seems to follow you) out.
Someone gives you a strange red-eyed tree-frog which has
been taken from a bunch of bananas just shipped in.
8. Starting from a Complete Story Idea.
Following the plan outlined in the text, construct a story from
one of the complete story ideas suggested below:
A rich man who has been poor, and who knows the hardships
of poverty, has a daughter (or a son) who is thoughtless and
inconsiderate of the poor. The father influences the younger per-
son to be more sympathetic.
A preacher who entered the ministry as a youth fired with zeal
finds in his mature age that he no longer has his early enthusiasm
and belief.
A farm woman engaged to be married to a farmer is called
away to live in the city for a year. When she returns to the farm,
her sense of values is so changed that she cannot bring herself
to marry the farmer.
Or the farmer may not be able to care for her as she now is.
Or she may hate the farm which she loved before going to
the city.
As a child, a man sees (or thinks he sees) a ghost with a hor-
rible face. Years later he sees the same face on a ship in which
he has planned to sail. He refuses to make the voyage on that
j ship. A week later he learns that the ship sank on the voyage
' he had intended to make.
9. The Actual Start.
Examine all the suggested starting points for stories suggested
in the exercises for this and the preceding chapter, and try to de-
cide what and where the inciting spark of each story might be.
Composing the Narrative 349
Take any one of the suggested stories, and make several differ-
ent inciting sparks for it; include an accidental happening, a new
happening resulting from natural development, action by a char-
acter.
10. Ending the Narrative.
Show how several of the story ideas mentioned in Exercise 8
above might have either happy or happy-unhappy endings, and
tell what kind of consolation the reader would have in the stories
with the latter type of ending.
CHAPTER XIX
Writing the Narrative
This chapter supposes that the writer has his narrative fairly well
composed in his head. He knows the dominant feeling and theme;
ho has visualized the general nature of his chief characters; he
knows what kind of quest is to be followed in the narrative; he has
planned an obstructed narrative that is to have an ending that has
been predetermined; and he has considered the use of possible con-
trasts, conflicts, and complications. Now he must get down to the
practical work of writing.
I. Some Preliminary Decisions
1. LENGTH. The writer has probably thought already about the
probable length of his narrative. If not, he should begin thinking
about it now. The length depends upon the medium of publication
which the writer hopes to use. A novel is about 70,000 to 200,000
words long. Sometimes novellas, or short novels, or long short stories
(like some of Conrad's) of about 25,000 to 50,000 words are pub-
lished separately in book form. Magazines are to be studied in-
dividually if one is to know their preferred lengths: some use
stories of 1000 to 1500 words; the large slick-paper magazines use
them up to 6000 words long, and occasionally much longer.
2. QUANTITIES IN FICTION. In all fiction, certain decisions about
quantities and proportions must be made; often they can be made,
roughly at any rate, before the actual writing begins. The question
of length has just been discussed. Knowing the approximate length
of the total work helps the writer decide many other quantitative
problems. In a very short story, exposition and description must
often be reduced almost to the vanishing point; in a long novel they
may occupy much space. Accordingly, the writer who is chiefly con-
350
Writing the Narrative 351
cerned with imagery and backgrounds will be unwise to attempt to
write very short stories. Likewise, the writer who is chiefly con-
cerned with the slow development of character will not attempt to
write very short stories.
Since it often happens that the same idea could be developed into
a short story, a novella, or a novel, the writer must decide early
which of these forms he will write. If he determines on one of the
shorter forms, he will need to invent only a few obstructions to be
put in the path of the positive movement of the narrative. If he
determines on a longer form, he will have to invent more obstruc-
tions. Thus, one or two obstructions to the happy ending of a love
affair would be enough for a short story; but dozens of obstructions
would be required for a novel.
A very important, and often neglected, consideration in fiction is
that implied in the proverb, "One swallow does not make a summer."
This is actually the expression of a scientific point of view. The doc-
tor who administers a certain kind of medicine to only one patient,
and seemingly effects a cure, would never convince his brother
physicians that the medicine is so wonderful as he says; he would
be forced to administer it to a whole series of patients, and cure
most of them, before he could produce a really convincing argument.
It is much the same in fiction. If one wishes to show that a fictional
character is culpably weak, one cannot show him being weak in
merely one instance everybody is occasionally weak. One must
show him being weak in instance after instance. Or (to return to a
situation already mentioned ) if one wishes to show that a hospital is
cold, mechanical, and heartless, one will not show merely one nurse
being cold, mechanical, and heartless cold, mechanical, and heart-
less people are found occasionally everywhere. One must show sev-
eral nurses who are cold, mechanical, and heartless, and a supervisor
of nurses who is the same way, and an intern or two who are the
same way, and people in the business office who are the same way:
the many instances constitute proof, whereas one instance would
mean little. In Galsworthy's Justice, there are two accumulations of
instances to prove the actual injustice of so-called legal justice; one
is the collection of condemned criminals in the prison who are all
35 Creative Writing
mentally or emotionally sick characters whose personalities are being
still further distorted by prison, and the other is the gradual con-
version of all the people who really know anything about the cen-
tral crime in the play to the belief that legal justice is really injustice.
Were it not for this accumulation of numerous instances, we might
feel that the injustice worked on the central character of the play is
just one of those unusual and unfortunate exceptions to a general
rule that are bound to occur occasionally. The writer must know
from the beginning, in a general way at least, how he is going to
accumulate convincing details provided, of course, that he is writ-
ing the kind of story that requires an accumulation of convincing
details.
3. STYLE. Just as the prospective medium of publication deter-
mines length, the same medium determines style. Some magazines
like long sentences, some short; some are not averse to big words,
some are; some do not object to long paragraphs, some do; some
like crisp details of action with much dialogue, some do not object
to deliberate psychological analysis or description. The writer must
find his medium of publication, and try to fit his style to it; or else
he must try to find the medium of publication that would be recep-
tive to the kind of style he likes to write.
To be sure, the nature of the subject often determines the style,
and the writer should remember this. The writer should remember,
furthermore, that adjusting his style to fit different kinds of readers
is not a prostitution of his art. As has already been remarked in this
book (p. 291), mere common sense dictates that one kind of lan-
guage and style be used with small children, another kind with
average adult readers, and another with readers of very specialized
knowledge or tastes. Novels find their own readers and may have
any sort of style that a publisher thinks will make them saleable.
Some of the literary, or "advanced/' magazines may use fiction
written in an original or experimental style, particularly the stream-
of-consciousness style, or some derivation or approximation of it,
together with descriptive and psychological material of some length.
The more popular magazines tend to shun such style, as well as such
material.
Writing the Narrative 353
4. POINT OF VIEW. Most fiction is written from the mental, emo-
tional, and physical point of view of one character. The action is told,
character portrayed, and setting constructed as they appear to one
character. If thoughts or feelings are analyzed, they are the thoughts
and feelings of one character. In other words, the author tells his
story as it appears to one of his characters, and the author enters
the mind of only one of his characters.
Deviation from this general rule does occur. Sometimes the author
takes an omniscient point of view ( see below ) from which he sur-
veys the entire field of his work the minds and emotions of all the
characters, things that happen simultaneously in several places,
things that no one character could possibly know about. Sometimes
the author changes the mental point of view from scene to scene, or
from chapter to chapter. For example, a story may begin with our
being shown a man and what he is thinking, and then his daughter
and what she is thinking, and then the daughter's lover and what he
is thinking. But seldom would all points of view be taken at once;
that is, in the scene where the daughter, say, is the central figure, the
author will seldom skip back and forth between the mind of the
daughter and the mind of her father. Each scene belongs psycho-
logically to one character. As a matter of fact, the tendency in most
of the best fiction is to keep an entire story or an entire novel in one
mind's experience.
Just whose mind shall be the center of the web is a rather impor-
tant problem that the writer must solve before he begins writing.
Two main points of view are possible: the personal, in which the
author, or ostensible narrator, enters into the story as a character;
and the impersonal, in which the author, or ostensible narrator, never
appears.
a. The personal point of view is that in which the narrator is a
character in the tale he tells. The advantage of this point of view is
that it always gives a look of veracity to any story in which it is used.
The disadvantage is that the adoption of this point of view prevents
the author's showing events occurring in different places at the same
time, or events kept secret from the supposed teller of the tale, or the
thoughts and intentions of anybody in the story except the teller.
354 Creative Writing
(1) The principal character point of view intensifies the chief
advantage of all personal points of view, that is, it makes the nar-
rative seem altogether credible unless the narrator obviously has
some axe to grind, some benefit to be gained by lying. But it prevents
the narrator from making himself out a hero or a witty person; for
obviously he could not, in good taste, tell the fine things he did or
the clever things he said. Moreover, if the principal character hap-
pens to be an illiterate person, a spirit, or an animal, he could not
plausibly be pictured as writing down his experiences.
( 2 ) The minor character point of view is that in which the action
is performed in the presence and with the knowledge of the narrator,
who himself participates in the action but plays an inconspicuous
part in the events he narrates. This is one of the most effective, but
one of the least used, of the personal points of view. It has the ad-
vantage of plausibility, as does the principal character point of view,
and, in addition, it has the advantage of impartiality, since the nar-
rator here is telling what he saw happen to other people, rather than
what happened to him. Moreover, the minor character here is a kind
of emotional intermediary through whose personality we ourselves
experience emotions about the action narrated the fact that he feels
the emotions makes us feel them. The minor character point of view
does not have the disadvantages peculiar to the principal character
point of view. But one serious disadvantage that it does have is the
fact that the character may seem to the reader an undignified and
ridiculous tag-along ( as Mackellar seems, for example, in The Master
of Ballantrae). And another is that he cannot very well appear in
love scenes, or know anything about love scenes which involve the
principal character. The latter would not make love in the presence
of the minor character; and if the minor character overheard the
other making love, he would appear to the reader as nothing better
than a gossiping eavesdropper.
(3) The reportorial point of view is that in which the author re-
ports (as does Kipling in Soldiers Three) stories told to him by
other people in the language of the other people. We may say at
once that this point of view is usually to be avoided. From a dramatic
point of view it is bad, for it first interests the reader in one series of
Writing the Narrative 355
actions (the reporter's meeting one set of characters and getting
them started on a story ) , and then it starts all over again and begins
interesting the reader in another set of characters; and finally, it must
end with a flat, expository conclusion in which the reporter brings
the reader back to the first scene once more. It is bad from the stand-
point of plausibility, for the reader wonders how the reporter could
remember all the words, expressions, and accents of the teller of the
story, and then write them down accurately. And it is bad from the
standpoint of psychology, for it keeps a third party constantly be-
tween the reader and the teller of the story. Yet the point of view of
the reporter has one advantage; it permits the reader to get a story
in the colorful and amusing language of people who are witty or
picturesque, but who are too illiterate to write their own stories.
(4) The point of view of a non-participant is that in which the
narrator tells a story as he saw it, though he himself did not par-
ticipate in it. It is the point of view of Conrad's Marlowe. The
advantages and the disadvantages which accompany its use are very
much the same as those which accompany the point of view of the
minor character already discussed. But the non-participating point
of view does not endanger the dignity of the narrator as does the
minor character point of view. On the other hand, to have a non-
participant tell a long story does not make for plausibility: the
reader asks how the narrator knows so much without being a prying
individual. Furthermore, the introduction of the non-participant is
sometimes as awkward as is the introduction of the narrator in stories
having the reportorial point of view; and the quoting of what the
non-participant said is sometimes as unreal as quoting from the
reportorial point of view. In general, therefore, this point of view is
dangerous. It has its uses, and it has very real advantages; but when
it is misused, it is chaotic and unreal. Even Conrad would have done
well to avoid it more often than he did.
b. The impersonal point of mew is that in which the narrator of
the tale never enters into the action, or names himself, or uses the
first personal pronoun.
(1) The omniscient point of view is that in which the writer
knows everything that happens to all his characters at any time in
856 Creative Writing
any place; he knows their thoughts, their hearts, their purposes; he
may skip from England to the Holy Land in an instant; he may
overhear all secrets; he may pry behind all doors; he may look in at
all windows. He knows the characters better than they know one
another, and better than they know themselves. The advantages of
this point of view are too obvious to deserve comment. The chief
disadvantage is that it loses a certain flavor of veracity which the
personal points of view have. Yet this disadvantage may be ignored
because of the fact that long traditions of tales told from the omnis-
cient point of view have made it acceptable to readers. They are
willing to bow to convention and not ask the author, How do you
know?
(2) The dramatic point of view (such as is used in all plays) is
certainly the most natural and convincing point of view. The spec-
tator of a play does not have to take anybody's word for anything;
he himself sees the action progressing under his eyes. He sees the
villainy of the villain and the heroism of the hero; he interprets
character, reads his own meaning into speeches and actions, and
works out the implication and involvement of events. Obviously,
this is the perfect point of view. Yet it is not always practicable.
For reasons stated in the first chapter of this study of fiction ( reasons
which need not be repeated here), authors can profitably avail
themselves of the dramatic point of view only occasionally. Gen-
erally they must make a choice from the other five points of view.
5. SYMBOLISM. From earliest times, fiction has had characters
and has narrated events that have significance beyond the mere
surface appearance. The fables of Aesop and the parables of the
New Testament are examples of symbolic fiction. In the first, the
various animals represent people acting in certain ways, and what
happens to them represents what would or should happen to people
acting in the same way. Thus, the lion letting the mouse go free
symbolizes a great person acting with magnanimity, and the mouse
helping the lion to escape from a net symbolizes both gratitude and
the dependence of the great on the small. Likewise, the good
Samaritan of the parable is more than just a good Samaritan; he
Writing the Narrative 357
symbolizes all good men who do, or should, help their fellow men
in distress.
Sometimes the characters are symbolic. Thus, in Ibsen's An Enemy
of the People Dr. Stockmann represents the liberal-minded, well-
meaning man who is too impractical to deal with the corrupt world
around him; his brother, the Mayor, represents the well-to-do con-
servatives; his wife's grandfather, Morten Kiil, represents the old-
fashioned reactionaries; Aslaksen represents the lower middle
classes; Dr. Stockmann's daughter represents the new enlightened
woman and so on.
Sometimes many details of action, speech, and image are sym-
bolic. For example, Dr. Stockmann goes out in his best morning
clothes to address a public meeting; a riot ensues and the Doctor's
trousers are torn and muddied. At home he remarks ruefully, "A
man cannnot afford to wear his best trousers when he goes out to
fight for truth." The symbolism is clear: Dr. Stockmann has failed
because he has tried to act on too high a plane of conduct. In the
same play, the pollution of the city's profitable baths comes from
old Morten Kill's tanyard. Again, the symbolism is clear: the town
makes its living out of polluted sources, and the origin of the pollu-
tion is the older generation's mistakes or misdeeds.
Since the 1920's, at least, most serious novels and stories in English
have contained a large element of symbolism. And the young writer,
before he beings his story, might do well to see where he could use
symbolism. Characters need not exist just for themselves (as in
nineteenth-century fiction ) but they may represent types; and action
need not be merely a plot spun out for its story-interest, but it may
be a symbolic representation of the social, moral, and intellectual
struggles of a social group.
II. The Beginning and the Ending
1. EXPOSITION. One of the major problems of beginning is that
of finding a way to tell the general situation (see p. 340) prevailing
when the inciting spark of action occurs. This situation includes
358 Creative Writing
information as to the place where the action happens, the time when
it happens, the historical setting, the identity and the relationship of
the characters, the past careers of the characters, and the like. There
are four ways in which this exposition may be given:
a. Retrospective exposition summarizes what happened before
the story commences. It is a resum6 of action, a narration told with-
out benefit of scenes or of imagination. Nearly always it is com-
pletely and unforgivably bad. If the action leading up to the be-
ginning of the story is so important, the reader is tempted to ask,
why doesn't the story begin with that action? Why is the beginning
postponed until so late a time? When a story is begun, the reader
expects it to go straight ahead, not to drop back and talk about
events that happened long ago. The only exception to this rule is the
flashback which the motion picture has made popular. The flash-
back, however, is not exposition; it is fiction that is scenic and
imaginative. The flashback exists for its own sake; retrospective ex-
position exists for the sake of the story being told. The former is
quite legitimate; the latter is not.
b. A lump of exposition at the beginning was characteristic of
many novels of the nineteenth century, in which the first chapter
was an interminable mass of description, history, and characteriza-
tion. Short story writers also used this method of exposition well into
the twentieth century; even Maupassant would write many long
paragraphs of exposition before he got the story started. This sort
of thing eventually went quite out of fashion. On the other hand,
there has lately occurred a reversal of fashion, and many modern
stories ( instead of having obviously arty beginnings ) start off with
a plain and unvarnished, but very brief, passage of pure exposition.
If not over-extended (one hundred words, at the outside, for the
average short story, and about a page for a novel ) , exposition given
in this manner makes a perfectly sound and rational beginning. The
young fiction-writer need not be afraid of it. But he must be sure
to make it true exposition of a situation existing at the start of his
story not a summary of a narrative leading up to his story.
c. A lump of exposition given after the story is well under way is
an attempt to make a compromise with the quick beginning and the
Writing the Narrative 359
slow beginning just described. Again, if the exposition is not too
long, so that it delays the progress of the story beyond the bounds
of the reader's patience, exposition given in this manner is quite
acceptable. If it were divided into small pieces so that it could be
dropped into the story almost without the reader's having to break
step in his progress with the narrative, it would be even better.
d. Exposition given piecemeal by means of casual hints dropped
unobtrusively is the most natural, most dramatic, and least obvious
type. Suppose, for example, one began a story thus:
The girl stood at the top of the library steps and looked out over the
campus. She breathed deeply, and caught the odor of pollen from a
thousand trees and flowers just coming to life again in the warm May
sunshine.
Another girl came out of the library and stood beside her. "The campus
is lovely this time of year/' she said. "Do they have scenes as pretty as
this in Arizona?"
"I don't mind going back," said the first girl. "Virginia has its good
points but four years here is long enough. I'm not sorry I'm graduating."
"I'm not either," said the other girl. "But I don't have Arizona waiting
for me I've only got Detroit."
The first girl laughed. "I'm not worried about you, Jane," she said.
"You'll probably end up with your name in lights that high on Broadway."
"Don't be silly, Nan! I'd be happy to get a job teaching school. Do you
think your dad could wangle a job for me out in Arizona?"
"Are you serious?"
"Certainly!"
"It might be managed at that. Do you want me to write to him?"
This passage contains no exposition. Yet it tells us all these facts:
the names of the two girls, the hcmes of both, that they have been
going to college in Virginia, that they are about to graduate, that
one of them is perhaps somewhat restless, that the other has had
experience with dramatics, that the father of the Arizona girl is
probably influential, that the other girl needs a job. Furthermore,
with the last two or three speeches in the dialogue, a story gets
started, a new situation is imposed on the general situation. This is
exposition and beginning as they should be.
2. THE FIRST SENTENCES. In a praiseworthy attempt to avoid the
360 Creative Writing
old-fashioned long expository beginning, many story writers of a
generation ago would begin stories with dialogue, or with some bit
of startling action, as in these first sentences:
"The baby is dying/* the doctor whispered.
"I would never marry you," she said. "Never."
The stranger fell heavily. A hole in his forehead gushed blood.
The ship was going down swiftly by the bow.
Though such beginnings have an undeniable attraction, they have
given way, for the most part, to something less melodramatic. The
latest volume of "Best" short stories has only one story beginning
with dialogue, eight with description, nine with some detail of
rather insignificant action, and ten with brief exposition. Of twenty-
eight stories in recent numbers of the American Magazine, American
Mercury, Atlantic, Harpers, and New Yorker, five begin with
dialogue, five with description, seven with details of action, and 11
with exposition. In other words, the modern short story may have
almost any kind of beginning that does not delay the start of the
narrative itself more than fifty to one hundred words.
The main thing for the writer to remember is that the writing
should begin as close as possible to the beginning of the narrative
itself. The less preliminary material, the better.
Ideally, description in the first few sentences should set the tone
of the story, or indicate the large feeling that transfuses it; action
should be interesting in itself, or it should help reveal character, or
it should get the story started; dialogue should reveal character, or
have expository value, or get the story started. Furthermore, exposi-
tion or description at the beginning can often be best conveyed
dramatically. For example, "He remembered with impatience that
his train was not due for another half hour" is better than the blunt
statement, "His train was not due for another half hour." "He
looked up at the bats flickering about the cathedral spires in the
gray evening sky" is better tiian, "He stood before the cathedral in
the early evening."
Some negative rules for beginnings follow:
Dont make the first paragraph extremely long.
Writing the Narrative 361
Don't overload the beginning with many expository details that
the reader must absorb in a short space.
In particular, don't introduce by name more than one or two
characters or one or two places in the first few paragraphs; too many
proper names all at once confuse the reader.
Don't introduce any detail in the first few paragraphs unless you
can convince yourself that it has some usefulness in setting the
tone, revealing character, giving necessary information, or getting
the story started.
Dont use long or bookish words in the first few sentences.
3. THE LAST SENTENCES. The novel of the nineteenth century often
had a final chapter called "Conclusion." This chapter contained a
quick summary of what happened to the main characters after the
story itself ended. It was like an extended "They lived happily ever
afterward/* Early short stories sometimes had a similar, but neces-
sarily briefer, conclusion appended as a paragraph or two after the
story itself was finished. Later on, there was a tendency to end the
story with dramatic suddenness the instant the final scene or episode,
the climactic denouement, was finished. That tendency is still ap-
parent in many modern stories; yet most modern writers seem to
feel that the abrupt ending, like the abrupt beginning, sounds
studied and artificial. Consequently, a very large proportion of
modern short stories, and of modern novels also, continue for a
few sentences after the denouement; they do not end with a shock.
The shock, if there is to be one, comes a little earlier than the end
of the writing.
More often than not, the last sentence in the modern short story
or novel is a bit of dialogue. Sometimes it is a description; some-
times it is an action that marks an end of the narrative (like a de-
parture, or a greeting on arrival at a destination, or the closing of
a door, or a separation); and sometimes it is a semi-philosophical
comment on the preceding action, or a summary of its meaning. But
it is never an outright moral. In the typical happy-ending story of
the popular magazines, it is often a kind of licking-of-the-chops, a
smug self -congratulation by some character in the story over an
action well finished.
362 Creative Writing
III. The Body of the Narrative
1. SUSPENSE. Most people have glanced through a story or a
novel so bad that it actually hurt, and have muttered, "How on
earth did this ever get published?" The answer, more than likely, is
suspense. The bad writers who continue to be published and the
good writers who continue to be read have it. Why readers love to
feel suspense is a mystery, for suspense is painful. Milton put it
bluntly: "Suspense is torture." Perhaps there, is something of the
masochist in all readers that makes them court suspense, just as it
mokes people ride on roller coasters. At any rate, the writer must
be something of a sadist; he must be willing to torture his reader
with suspense, torture the hero of the story by piling mountains of
miseries upon him, and tantalize hero, heroine, and reader by snatch-
ing from them, time after time, the cup of bliss.
As has been said already in this book, suspense consists of three
parts: a hint or suggestion that something important is likely to hap-
pen, a long wait for it to happen, and then the happening itself. The
hint is vital, and the wait is vital; for if the reader does not know
that something is going to happen, he does not know that he is
waiting for anything, and he is not in suspense and if the reader
does not have to wait, but gets satisfaction immediately, he is not
in suspense. Amateur writers often prefer the minor virtue of brief
surprise to the greater virtue of long suspense; and they like to get
a story told without delay, without making the reader wait. They
do not realize that people appreciate a thing only after they have
waited and longed for it. If they have not waited and longed, the
thing comes to them "stale, flat, and unprofitable."
Suspense may be studied under three headings: the general con-
ditions or requirements of suspense, methods of giving the necessary
hint, and methods of making the reader wait. ( The final happening
may be taken for granted if the writer has composed his story well. )
a. The conditions of suspense are likewise three:
( 1 ) Uncertainty is one of the conditions of suspense. We endure
suspense when we are uncertain about the winning of a football
game or of a battle or of a war, about an election, about the recovery
Writing the Narrative 363
of a sick child, about the success of a love affair. Often the uncer-
tainty involves a conflict an actual physical conflict between in-
dividuals or groups, as in war stories, western stories, and sports
stories; a conflict of wits, as in tales of intrigue and crime; a conflict
between individual and environment, as in adventure stories about
outdoor life and in certain modern sociological stories; a conflict
within the individual himself, in which opposing desires or emotions
within a character war against one another, as in most serious fic-
tion. But the uncertainty does not necessarily involve conflict. There
may be uncertainty as to whether a storm is going to strike a coast,
or whether rain will come in an area suffering from drought, or
whether a sick person will recover, or whether love will develop
between two people, and so on.
(2) The next condition required before there can be suspense is
that the issue at stake must seem important. We may be uncertain
about whether the sun will set at 5:15 or 5:35 this evening; but we
feel no suspense about it because the matter is of no importance to
us. But if, like James Corbett in his fine tales of hunting man-eating
tigers, we knew that being out after sunset would probably mean
death, we should be much concerned about the sunset hour. Or we
may be uncertain as to whether rain will come this week; and if we
were living in the city, we would probably feel no keen suspense
about it. If, however, we were living in the country, and we knew
that our crops and our cattle could not live another week without
rain, and that without rain this week we should lose all the money
we have ever saved, and our land, and our home we might be in
considerable suspense as to whether this week will bring rain.
There are several ways in which the writer can make the issue at
stake seem important: (a) He may make the issue some matter
which has acquired importance by the mutual consent of our civiliza-
tion: life, love, honor, country, fortune, the welfare of the innocent.
( b ) If he shows that the characters within a narrative regard some
matter as extremely important, or feel intensely emotional about it,
he will make the reader likewise regard the matter as extremely im-
portant through the reader's mere fellow feeling. ( c ) If he gets the
reader interested in a character, anything that happens to that char-
364 Creative Writing
acter from a broken finger to a broken neck will seem important
to the reader. ( d ) If the writer deals with an issue that is typical of
the issues that confront some whole class of people, or group, or
place, or time in history, the issue will seem important to the reader.
(3) The uncustomary may be a source of suspense. Thus, we may
be certain that a condemned criminal will be executed at promptly
the announced moment; but if we are to witness the execution, we
feel suspense about it nevertheless simply because it is not custom-
ary for us to witness executions every day. Still, there is some ques-
tion as to whether the uncustomary is a necessary ingredient of
suspense. Hardy once wrote that the aim of fiction is "to give pleas-
ure by gratifying the love of the uncommon in human experience."
And again, "We tale-tellers are all Ancient Mariners, and none of us
is warranted in stopping Wedding Guests (in other words, the
hurrying public) unless he has something more unusual to relate
than the ordinary experience of every average man and woman."
The realists among us would not agree with Hardy; they would in-
sist that "the ordinary experience of every average man and woman"
is exactly what should most concern the tale-teller. Perhaps a com-
promise, in which the word important could be substituted for
Hardy's unusual, would satisfy the realists. What the realists are
trying to show is that certain common, usual, and ordinary experi-
ences (a child's grief, a workman's resentment, a youth's frustra-
tions) when viewed understandingly and sympathetically, are im-
portant enough to halt any Wedding Guest. The whole problem
may boil down, then, to this: Is the subject important? Are the issues
at stake important?
b. Once the conditions of suspense are satisfied, the next ques-
tion the writer must answer for himself is this: How can the hint be
given that something important may happen?
( 1 ) The title may give the hint. Some stories in recent magazines
have these titles: "The Lynching," "Check for $90,000," "Night of the
Execution," "Wedding Night." All these titles convey a hint that
something extraordinary and important is in the air.
(2) The first sentence may give the hint. The following are ex-
periments with such sentences; they are easy to make: "His chances
Writing the Narrative 365
of escaping alive and unhurt were small, and he knew it"; "Against
his better judgment, he decided to yield to his impulse"; "It was too
late now for Gerald to go back"; "He was certain that he would die
before morning." As first sentences, these would almost certainly
start a chain of suspense that the reader could hardly resist.
( 3 ) Putting a character in a new environment or a new situation
creates suspense. Balzac has said, as a matter of fact, that the best
way to start a story is to take an ordinary character and put him
in an uncustomary situation. Think over the last few novels and
stories you have read, and the last few motion pictures you have
seen, and you will be struck by the frequency with which this de-
vice is used. It creates suspense because it hints automatically that
adjustments must be made and conflicts must occur in the rest of the
story.
(4) Starting a character on a journey is an easy and always-
effective means of creating suspense; it is as old as the Canterbury
Tales and as new as the last war story about a voyage, an invasion,
or a raid. A journey creates suspense even when the reason for it is
unimportant. This device is close kin to the next device.
(5) A meeting or encounter planned early for central characters
is an excellent suspense-creating device. It is used in Moby Dick,
in "Heart of Darkness," in "The Killers," in many scenes and episodes
of many plays and novels.
(6) Concealed identity was a stock-in-trade device of most drama
and most fiction up, to almost the twentieth century. All of Oscar
Wilde's plays in the 1890's pivot upon a concealed identity; it is
hard to remember a single novel or long narrative poem by Sir
Walter Scott that does not use the device; and it appears often
nowadays in detective and crime stories. It is still an effective device,
provided the reader is in on the secret.
Here follow three rather specialized methods for creating sus-
pense by hinting at important action to come:
( 7 ) Foreshadowing is hinting vaguely at coming events, creating
an emotional tone to fit the anticipated ending, or introducing sug-
gestive signs, premonitions, portents, predictions, and the like. Haw-
thorne's "The Ambitious Guest" is a model of a story gaining
366 Creative Writing
suspense by foreshadowing. The student should read it, noting
^carefully how disaster is suggested so skillfully in the midst of
rather tiresome characterization that the reader finds himself tense
with excitement even though practically nothing happens in the
main body of the story.
( 8 ) Preparation is literally a build-up talk about important char-
acters before they appear, or important events before they happen.
It is the standard method of advertisers of coming events (like
circuses), and many dramas and motion pictures use it. A classic
example is the introduction of Cyrano in the first act of Cyrano de
Berverac; and another is the talk about the heroine of A Farewell to
Arms before the reader is permitted to meet her. This device is par-
ticularly useful when a meeting of important characters is planned.
(9) Anticipation is the actual description of what is going to
happen before it happens. The play-within-the-play in Hamlet is an
example: the little play is completely outlined for us before it hap-
pens. The device is most commonly seen in fiction nowadays when
the narrative begins with a concluding scene, and then resorts to a
flashback to show how the big scene came out. The Bridge of San
Luis Rey is an example.
c. Suppose now that we have put the reader into suspense by any
of the devices just discussed. Our next problem is to make him
wait. It is a relatively simple problem. The principal thing to remem-
ber is that creating high suspense cannot be done in an instant.
Suspense is allied, at least, to emotion, and it may be an emotion.
Emotion is produced by hormones released into the blood stream by
certain glands; these hormones cannot bring about an emotion in
less than about thirty seconds. In that time a reader can cover about
150 to 200 words; that is to say, it is physiologically impossible for
the reader to work up any kind of emotion in less than about one-
third to one-half a page of reading after the initial hint is given. For
him to work up a really intense emotion, he must wait much longer.
Suspense and emotion are not created in an instant; the writer must
go slow.
( 1 ) He can invent a long series of obstructions, or obstacles, to
the progress of a narrative toward its inevitable conclusion. When
Writing the Narrative 367
the hero starts out for his objective, or on his journey, or to his meet-
ing, or toward adjusting himself to his new environment he must
not be allowed to succeed all at once. Logs must be thrown across
his path; he must be compelled to overcome difficulty after difficulty.
Like England, who loses all her battles but the last, the hero must
fight through many battles before he comes to victory at last or,
if the story is to end unhappily, he must fight through many battles,
now losing and now winning, until he comes to the last battle and
loses that too. Almost any story can be lengthened to whatever
dimensions the writer desires, provided the writer can invent enough
obstructions to the positive course of the action. This is the secret of
the perpetual popularity of Alexandre Dumas.
(2) In addition to placing obstructions in the way of the action,
the writer may delay matters by temporary distractions in the form
of descriptions, psychological analysis, some accidental interruption,
or even exposition. While the hero is riding toward an ambush that
we know is waiting for him, the writer will prolong the suspense by
describing the scene as it appears to the hero riding along; or he will
let the reader glimpse what is passing through the hero's mind; or he
will have the hero pause to say a few words to a friend or a stranger
whom he encounters on the way. Under no circumstances will he let
the hero ride straight and quickly to the ambush.
Sometimes an action may occur so quickly and unexpectedly that
the writer may have no time to build up suspense. For example, an
automobile accident, or a snake biting a character, or a sudden fall
may happen so quickly and unexpectedly that building up to them
by means of any of the devices listed here would be unnatural and
unconvincing. On such occasions, however, the writer can still get
an emotional reaction in the reader by pausing to describe, psy-
chologize, or even explain affairs after the event has occurred. All of
us have had the experience of narrowly missing an accident, and then
having a strong emotional reaction within the next minute after the
accident, or sometimes hours or days after it. This post-accident
period is a time for creating emotion in fiction.
(3) One way to insure obstacles being present, if there is a con-
flict in the narrative, is to have the conflicting elements evenly
868 Creative Writing
matched. A one-sided conflict never pleases anybody; it contains too
little torture. A good story is hardly more than a hero prevented
through five pages, or fifty pages, or five hundred pages, from getting
what the reader wants him to have. When all is said, it is essentially
an experience in slow torture for the reader, and an exercise in de-
liberate sadism for the writer. No writer can afford to be merciful
until his last page, or last chapter.
2. CREATING CHARACTERS. If one could tell writers how to create
characters, one could tell writers how to be geniuses. If a writer of
fiction can portray interesting characters, he will be remembered;
if he cannot, he is likely to be forgotten. We can forgive an author
almost anything if only he is able to create well-rounded, convincing,
memorable characters. Though there is no rule that will tell a
writer how to create characters, there are some hints that may help.
a. A fictional character may be lifted directly from life. Balzac,
Daudet, Maupassant, Dickens, Maugham, D, H. Lawrence, and
many others have confessed to having picked a large number of
their characters ripe off the tree of life. On the other hand, says
Maugham, "Nothing, indeed, is so unwise as to put into a work of
fiction a person drawn line by line from life"; the writer, he adds,
"takes only what he wants of the living man" so that the fictional
character is "the result of imagination founded on fact." Sometimes
a fictional character is a combination of several characters the author
knows in real life; sometimes he is a personification of only one or
two traits from a person the author knows in real life. Actually, one
does not have to know well a character whom one transfers from
life to fiction. Joseph Conrad, for example, saw the original of Mr.
Jones, in Victory, for only about five minutes; Mr. Jones is a result
of Conrad's imagination founded on this five minutes of fact. Indeed,
the attempt to put into fiction an exact portrait of some person whom
we know well is likely to make difficulties; real human beings are
much too complicated and inconsistent for the simplified artistic
purposes of the writer.
b. As was pointed out in Section 5 of Chapter XVI, one may con-
ceive a character as being typical in several ways of a period of
life, of a sex, of a time in history, of a geographical region, of a
Writing the Narrative 369
race, of a trade or profession, of a social class, of a manner of think-
ing or acting or feeling. Out of characters typifying such things an
author can sometimes create individualized and convincing charac-
ters in several ways:
(1) A character who is conceived as typical of many things at
once becomes individualized, and is convincing.
(2) A character who is exaggeratedly typical of anything is in-
dividualized and convincing. For example, a character who is exag-
geratedly youthful, or exaggeratedly masculine, or exaggeratedly
Texan, or exaggeratedly middle class, and so on, makes an excellent
character.
(3) On the other hand, a character who is incongruously non-
typical is individualized and convincing. Thus, an elderly person
who acts too youthfully, a woman who acts too mannishly, a Texan
who acts like a Beacon Street Bostonian, a middle-class person who
acts like a millionaire all these make good characters.
(4) Exaggeration of some trait (that is, caricature) makes inter-
esting, if not quite convincing, characters. The old comedy of humors
(by Jonson, Steele, Gibber, Sheridan, and others) had this kind of
character as in Miss Lydia Languish, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Sir
Anthony Absolute, Lord Lovelady, Lady Comfortable, and others
whose names tell their dominant trait.
( 5 ) A superficial but sometimes effective device is to give a char-
acter some obvious external peculiarity, like a wooden leg or a
patched eye (as in Treasure Island), or a characteristic gesture or
tag-line, like Mrs. Micawber's "Nothing can ever persuade me to
desert Mr. Micawber," or Jeremy Cruncher's continual peeling of
his hands, or Uriah Heep's constant writhing.
c. A character seems convincing when the reader has several
conflicting emotions about him. A character who is all goodness is
not convincing, and neither is one who is all badness. A character
whom we merely admire is not convincing, and neither is one whom
we merely despise. To be convincing, he must make us admire him
and despise him; pity him and dislike him; think him false and yet
true; understand why he does something in the narrative, and yet
deplore his doing it; regard him as fundamentally intelligent and
370 Creative Writing
yet sometimes inexcusably foolish. In general, he will be a character
whose fundamental traits will make us sympathize with him under
certain circumstances, and make us condemn him in others. Thus,
under certain circumstances, we admire the patriotism of Brutus, in
Julius Caesar; but under other circumstances we deplore it. In Ham-
let thoughtfulness and studiousness could be admirable in normal
circumstances; but in abnormal circumstances such traits make him
not admirable. And in any event, both the good and the evil, the
strength and the weakness, of a character must be presented frankly
and unapologetically; neither of them is to be ignored or glossed
over by too casual treatment. Bret Harte's miners, gamblers, and
strumpets are false characters because their creator, though ad-
mitting their immorality, minimizes it by neglecting to portray it;
at the same time he magnifies their goodness by dwelling on it. In
contrast, the villain of the contemporary motion picture, of the
melodrama and melodramatic novels of the last century, of the
average boy's book and comic magazine, is a creature of unmitigated
depravity who is not convincing. When the fiction writer feels that
his reader may have only one emotion about a character the writer
has created, the character is probably not well conceived.
(At the same time, it must be confessed that, in the first place, a
character may be so unimportant in the narrative that the writer
may have no desire to waste time trying to make him too convincing;
and in the second place, the writer may sometimes wish to stack
the cards for or against a certain character just to make him perform
the function in the story for which he was originally designed. )
d. Perhaps the fiction writer's best friend is the sensitive charac-
ter the character who is almost abnormally alive to the world
about him, keenly perceptive, emotionally responsive, intensely im-
pressionable the person who understands quickly, is easily sus-
ceptible to being emotionally touched by the world, reacts intensely
to persons, nature, society, situations. A character such as this
creates that almost exaggerated atmosphere of taking-things-seri-
ously which is the essence of drama; and he is a mirror in whom the
world as the fiction-writer conceives it can be reflected.
3. PORTRAYING CHARACTERS. The actual method of character por-
Writing the Narrative 371
trayal in any narrative is either direct or indirect. An author who
uses the first method may tell his reader, either by blunt character
analysis or by interpretative description, exactly what sort of person
a certain individual is as Sir Walter Scott and James Fenimore
Cooper have a habit of doing at the first introduction of any prin-
cipal character. A variant of this method, though actually identical
with the device just mentioned, is the portrayal of character by
means of reports of other characters about him. Ca3sar characterizes
Antony several times in Shakespeare's play; King Henry character-
izes Hotspur early in / Henry IV; and Hotspur's ambassador returns
to his chief with glowing tributes characterizing Hal. Such direct
character portrayals have the virtue of informing the reader, from
the very first, about some person who is to figure in the story. Yet
this virtue can hardly compensate for the fact that this direct method
halts the action and is unnatural. People in real life do not bear
labels, nor do they subject themselves to immediate and full analysis
when we first encounter them.
Much more natural is the indirect method of character portrayal.
A writer using such a method introduces his characters by name or
business, and then allows them to reveal themselves just as new ac-
quaintances reveal themselves to us in real life.
a. Sometimes a man's conversation exposes his nature to the lis-
tener much better than could any studied analysis of his character.
Coleridge tells of a banquet at which a mysterious and interesting-
looking guest ate and said nothing during a large part of the meal.
Coleridge conceived that the man must be a man of genuine im-
portance. But at length, when the potatoes were passed, the stranger
reached for them and cried out, "Them's the bullies for me!" That
one remark characterizes the man completely.
b. Sometimes the actions, impulsive, deliberate, or habitual, of
a person will reveal his character:
At the height of that fearful tempest, with Mrs. Johnson hysterical and
the children dumb with fright, Mr. Johnson stood by the door methodi-
cally tamping down the tobacco in his pipe, and trying to strike one wet
match after another on the door-facing.
Creative Writing
We need no more analysis of Mr. Johnson: we know him already.
This next shows habitual actions which thoroughly characterize a
man.
He had worked as a section-hand on a railroad for fifteen years; he had
never married; he had denied himself all luxuries and many comforts,
even necessities; and he had done all this in order to send back to his
home in Greece a yearly sum to support a disabled father and an aged
mother.
What else need be told of this man?
c. Habitual environment is a third means of portraying charac-
ter. We understand Don Quixote much better when we see his
untended and dilapidated paternal estate; we understand Gerald
(in The Old Wives Tale) better when we see the expensiveness
of his surroundings in Paris; and we understand Miss Prittle when
we read the following description of her surroundings :
Miss Prittle's gate clicked behind him. A clean-swept, glistening brick
walk, red with white mortar, led straight to a clean-swept front step be-
tween two rows of straight zinnias. The door-knob gleamed in the sun,
and the bell buzzed sharply when he touched it.
d. Finally, a description of the effect one character has on others
is an excellent means of depicting character. For example, we might
be tempted to take Glendower's sentimentality seriously if we did
not see the skeptical Hotspur ridiculing the Welshman. Or we
should miss half the humor of Don Quixote's folly if we did not see
the effect of it on the unimaginative Sancho.
The child had been playing with her dolls on the sofa; but as soon as
her father entered the room, she collected her toys and disappeared.
We know now both the father and the daughter.
4. CREATING A BACKGROUND. A complete background for a piece
of fiction includes time, place, and social group. To create such a
background, and a sense of it to the reader, the writer may do one
or several of the following things:
a. He may describe the physical setting of his story as Kipling
describes the Himalayas in "The Miracle of Purun Baghat," or as
George W. Cable describes New Orleans in Old Creole Days.
Writing the Narrative 373
b. He may present typical characters of a region, a time, or a
social rank as Sarah Orne Jewett presents typical characters of
New England, as Scott in Ivanhoe presents typical characters of
England in the twelfth century, and as O. Henry presents typical
characters of the lower working classes of New York.
c. He may introduce typical dialect as does Charles Egbert
Craddock in her stories of the Tennessee mountaineers, and Joel
Chandler Harris in his stories of the Southern Negro before the
Civil War. This typical dialect (as well as the other typical details
to be mentioned immediately ) may be typical, of course, of a place,
a time, or a social rank.
d. The writer may describe typical costumes as does Scott in
all his historical novels (Carlyle says that he "describes his char-
acters from the skin outwards" ) .
e. He may describe typical customs as Synge does in Riders
to the Sea and as Flaubert does in Salammbo.
f. He may describe typical mental attitudes as Maupassant de-
scribes the cold and selfish cruelty of the typical Norman mind,
as Hawthorne describes the narrow and austere Puritanism of the
typical New England mind, as Oscar Wilde describes the impudent
and cynical sophistication of the typical aristocratic mind in London
of the nineteenth century.
IV. Incidentals
1. DIALOGUE. Dialogue is not absolutely necessary in fiction; yet
most writers of fiction use dialogue because it helps create an illusion
of reality, because it is more vivid and direct than a mere round-
about summary of what people in the story say, because it helps in
characterization, because it may sometimes advance the action
swiftly, and because it affords variety. Though dramatic writers
must necessarily give information through dialogue, writers of other
sorts of fiction ought to be a little wary of purely expository dialogue.
They ought to take it as a rough rule-of -thumb that dialogue has no
place in a story unless it serves one of two purposes to illustrate
character, or to advance action. If it serves neither purpose, or some
other purpose, it should give place to another sort of writing.
374 Creative Writing
The chief problem of most writers is to make dialogue sound
natural. As a matter of fact, however, readers will readily accept
even very unnatural dialogue provided it is consistent. That is,
readers will accept stilted and artificial dialogue if this sort of
dialogue is consistent with the tone of the work as a whole, and if
it is consistent within itself. For example, if a writer pictures a
character as using modern slang, he could not have him talking in
well-rounded Johnsonian periods; or if he pictures the character
working in a realistically conceived contemporary setting, the writer
could not have the character talking in the more elaborate fashion
of our grandfathers. The point is that readers will accept dialogue
just as the writer wishes to present it if only he remains consistent
in his own presentation. Nobody objects to the poetic speeches of
Lord Dunsany's characters; nobody objects to the inhuman wit and
glitter of the speeches of Oscar Wilde's characters; nobody objects
to the impossible distortions of grammar, pronunciation, and logic
in the speeches of Dickens's characters; and nobody objects to the
oracular and philosophic disquisitions in the speeches of Bernard
Shaw's characters. All these speeches are consistent within them-
selves and within the author's work as a whole; and accordingly, all
are acceptable to the reader.
But though naturalness of dialogue is not all-important, it is
often desirable and necessary. Naturalness will come if the writer
has conceived his characters perfectly, and has entered completely
into their imagined existence. Nevertheless, a few suggestions about
writing dialogue cannot come amiss; they are short cuts to the
knowledge which the writer would eventually come to through ex-
perience even if he had never read a textbook on writing.
The first of these suggestions is that long passages of uninter-
rupted dialogue do not make good writing. This is a general rule
to which almost anyone can find many notable exceptions in litera-
ture. But it is a good rule, nevertheless. If the young writer finds
himself reporting over a page of uninterrupted dialogue, he should
catch himself up and ask himself if a paragraph or so of description,
comment, exposition, or straight narrative should not be inserted in
order to break up the dialogue.
Writing the Narrative 375
The next suggestion is that dialogue should usually be mixed
with a good measure of detail from the author's own imagination.
In the following passage from Arnold Bennett, for example, notice
how large a proportion of the words are Bennett's, and not Con-
stance's, Sophia's, or Mr. Povey's:
The tension was snapped by Mr. Povey. "My God!" he muttered,
moved by a startling discovery to this impious and disgraceful oath (he,
the pattern and exemplar and in the presence of innocent girlhood
tool). 'Tve swallowed it!"
"Swallowed what, Mr. Povey?" Constance inquired.
The tip of Mr. Povey's tongue made a careful voyage of inspection all
around the right side of his mouth.
"Oh yes!" he said, as if solemnly accepting the inevitable. "I've swal-
lowed it!"
Sophia's face was now scarlet; she seemed to be looking for some place
to hide it. Constance could not think of anything to say.
"That tooth has been loose for two years," said Mr. Povey, "and now
I've swallowed it with a mussel."
"Oh, Mr. Povey!" Constance cried in confusion, and added, "There's
one good thing, it can't hurt you any more now."
"Oh," said Mr. Povey. "It wasn't that tooth that was hurting me. It's an
old stump at the back that's upset me so this last day or two. I wish it
had been."
Sophia had her teacup close to her red face. At these words of Mr.
Povey her cheeks seemed to fill out like ripe apples. She dashed the cup
into its saucer, spilling tea recklessly, and then ran from the room with
stifled snorts.
"Sophia!" Constance protested.
"I must just " Sophia incoherently spluttered in the doorway. "I shall
be all right. Don't"
Constance, who had risen, sat down again. 1
These two suggestions about dialogue are of prime importance;
those which follow are only suggestions about minor devices which
make for naturalness.
Dialect should not be reproduced accurately, but should be
merely suggested. The distortions of spelling necessary for the ac-
curate transcription of Negro dialect, Irish brogue, broken English
1 From The Old Wives' Tale, by Arnold Bennett, reprinted by permission of
Doubleday, Doran and Company, Inc.
376 Creative Writing
spoken by foreigners, and so forth, are confusing to the reader. A
few words or constructions written in the manner of the dialect
are enough to suggest the entire dialect to the reader's imagination.
Speeches by individual characters ought to be fairly short
seldom over fifty or a hundred words in length. Sentences in dia-
logue ought not to be always grammatically complete; there should
be elliptical constructions, self-interruptions, exclamations, phrases
suggesting whole sentences ( like "You don't say!" "What for?" "Why
not?" "And me not there!" etc. ) .
Above all, dialogue should not consist of mere questions and
answers. If one character asks a question, the other character may
ignore it ( as Mr. Povey ignores Constance's question in the passage
quoted above), or answer an anticipated or implied question, or
ask another in return. For instance:
"Are you going to town?"
"I must finish this book before I go anywhere/'
Here the question asked is not answered, but a question anticipated
( "Why aren't you going to town?" ) is answered.
"What are you doing?"
"We are to have an examination tomorrow, and so I have to finish this
book."
Here the question "What?" is answered as if it had been 'Why?'*
"What are you doing?"
"Why do you ask?"
Here one question is answered by another.
By such slight devices as these an author can often give the breath
of life to his speaking characters.
2. TITLES. Sometimes a writer has a title in mind from the be-
ginning of his work on a piece of fiction, and keeps shaping his
story to fit the title. More often, perhaps, he thinks of a title when
he is halfway through his work, and then goes back over the work
and revises it to fit the title. And most often of all, a writer finishes
his story, and then wonders what to call it.
If one is seeking professional publication for his work, titles are
Writing the Narrative 377
extremely important. A good title can attract editorial attention
when a manuscript first arrives in a publishing office, and it will
attract readers after the story or the novel is published. As a matter
of fact, it frequently happens that publishers do not like the title
the author has given a narrative, and (if the work is accepted)
publish it with a title of the editor's own devising. It might be said
in passing that the editor's title is often worse than the author's;
but the editor has the privilege of being wrong if he insists, and the
author can do little about the matter.
The general form and diction of titles have been discussed on
pp. 248-251 of this book. The student should look back over what
was said there, and apply it to the following remarks that concern
fiction specifically.
a. A title should perform at least one of the following services:
(1) A title may attract attention by being unique, surprising,
or pleasing. Cry, the Beloved Country and Reflections in a Golden
Eye are examples from novels, and "The Shame of the Man on the
Egg" and "Fists of an Afternoon" are examples from stories.
(2) Titles that attract attention may also excite curiosity. Some-
times a reader will pause to read a story just to satisfy the curiosity
the title has aroused in him. This baiting of readers, and trying to
catch them on the hook of a suspenseful first few paragraphs, is
quite legitimate in these days when so much is being published
that readers must be lured to read even good literature. Examples
of titles, from novels and from stories, that excite curiosity are those
quoted just above and others like Fandango for a Crown of Thorns;
Run, Mongoose; ".007"; "Thomasina Disparue"; "The First Death
of Her Life."
( 3 ) The title may indicate the type of the story, and thus appeal
to specific groups of readers. For instance, "Sandra's New Hat"
would attract women readers, but "Action at Salano Bay" and
"Amphibious Operation" would probably repel women. The lover of
mystery stories would eagerly inspect The Bahamas Murder Case,
and the more romantic-minded person would read "Summer Ro-
mance" and "Late Summer Idyl."
(4) Sometimes a title may give the general emotional tone of the
378 Creative Writing
story. This is particularly true of the quality and "little" magazines.
One need not read the story to know that "Shut a Final Door" is
not humorous, but that "Antlers to the Alpenrose" is likely to be.
"Years Brought to an End" is likely to be serious and moody; "Treat
the Natives Kindly," ironic; "A Little Girl Named I," nostalgic; and
"Son of the Sea," romantic. Titles like these attract readers (and
editors) who are looking for stories having the emotional tone im-
plied.
(5) Once in a great while the title may serve to clarify the
writers meaning. Conrad's Victory, for example, ending as it does
with the death of all the important characters, takes on a special
meaning because of its title; so does his "Heart of Darkness." In
Sherwood Anderson's "The Door of the Trap," the title calls atten-
tion to the fact that conventions are a trap. But such titles are un-
common because stories so subtle as to require this kind of title
are uncommon.
b. Though the writer may know what functions a title may serve,
he still has the problem of finding a title. The following suggestions
may help:
(1) The title may be the main characters name as so often
happened with the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novel: Tom
Jones, Roderick Random, Adam Bede, David Copperfield. Two re-
cent stories, both in Mademoiselle, were called "Jerry" and "Charles,"
and three in Harper's Bazaar were "Victoria," "Dibly," and "Mr.
Bonebreaker." Names of women are usually more glamorous than
those of men as in Kitty Foyle, Peg Woffington, "Carmencita,"
"Miss W." But unless it can excite curiosity, as "Mr. Bonebreaker"
does, or unless it can be used with other words ( as in Forever Am-
ber, "Cleve Pikestaff, Senator," and "Pastor Dow at Tacate") the
name-title is not advisable.
(2) Sometimes a title may be manufactured out of some main
characteristic of a chief character his dominant trait, his profession
or office, his situation in life, his relationships to other characters:
The Cardinal, The Egyptian, The Kings Cavalier, "The Old Maid,"
"The Lovely Lady," "The Man of the House," "The Mother," "The
Man Who Could Work Miracles."
Writing the Narrative 379
(3) The title may designate some object, place, or time that
figures prominently in the story. Here are some examples naming
an object: A Bell for Adano, Lady Windermere's Fan, The Wall, The
Cherry Orchard, "The Birth Mark," "The Black Cat," "The White
Hound," "The Shared Bed/' A place: Tobacco Road, Oklahoma,
The Sea and the Jungle, "Home," "In the Park," "At Paso Rojes."
A time: In Old Creole Days (which also implies a place), When
Knighthood Was in Flower, "One Rainy Night," "A Summer Day,"
"In the Good Old Summertime."
(4) The title may name the main situation or outstanding event
in the story: The Light that Failed, Of Human Bondage, Lady on
the Lam, "The Courting of Dinah Shadd," "The Temptation of
Emma Boynton," "My Brother's Second Funeral."
( 5 ) Quotations from poems, the Bible, proverbs, and other works
have become very common in modern fiction. Examples are Gone
with the Wind, For Whom the Bell Tolls, And Tell of Time, "Edge
of Doom," "Hail Brother and Farewell," "Take Her Up Tenderly,"
"Brother's Keeper." A few minutes with almost any good book of
quotations in any library will suggest dozens of titles for almost
anything one has written.
3. HUMOR. In these days humor is valued (and paid for) more
highly, it may be, than at any other time in history. Nearly all novels
have, or should have, humor; many stories have it; and some stories
are almost entirely humorous. This universal demand for humor
has attracted some of the world's most expert humorists into the
field of purveying humor to the public, and as a consequence the
public has developed certain tastes and standards of humor that are
fixed, if not high. It follows that not everybody can compete suc-
cessfully in the field of humor; the public has become too demand-
ing, or too critical according to its own lights. It may be stated as a
rule that, unless the student feels very sure that he is a humorist,
he might do well not to try to be a humorous writer; nothing is so
pathetic as a writer who tries to be humorous, and fails. Further-
more, the student should remember that humorists are born, not
made.
Nevertheless, everybody has a sense of humor after a fashion; and
880 Creative Writing
everybody occasionally says or writes things that make other people
smile appreciatively, or laugh aloud. The task of the student writer
is to make use of whatever humorous talents he may have because
humorous writing is readable in itself, it attracts readers, and it
helps give pleasing variety to serious work. Perhaps the following
suggestions may help the student inject at least a little humor into
his work.
a. Nobody knows just why people laugh. Dozens of theories have
been suggested: that laughter is triumphant, that it is cruel, that it
is intended to humiliate others, that it is intended to exalt oneself,
that it is a result of a sudden relief of inner suppressions, that its
ohief source is irreverence, that it is inspired by the incongruous
or by the mildly disappointing or by the surprising in life, and so on.
We need not pause to philosophize or to psychologize on the subject
any further. All we need remember is that laughter may be more
serious than we realize.
b. What may be called serious laughter has been discussed by
George Meredith, who distinguishes the laughter of humor, the
laughter of satire, and the laughter of comedy from one another.
This serious laughter is ridicule; it derides or humiliates. Humor,
says Meredith, is ridicule of something for which we retain affection
like children at whose mistakes we laugh, or foreigners who
mispronounce English words, or freshmen who seem so ignorant.
Satire is ridicule with a purpose of persons or social customs that
are irrational, immoral, or unwise; it uses the weapon of laughter
in order to effect reform, for it knows that, for some reason, nobody
likes to be laughed at. Comedy is "intellectual laughter," "laughter
of the mind"; it has no desire to reform, and it does not love the
thing ridiculed; it merely points out the follies that exist among
men and women, the people who "wax out of proportion, overblown,
affected, pretentious, bombastical, hypocritical, pedantic, fantasti-
cally delicate . . . self-deceived or hoodwinked, given to run in
idolatries, drifting into vanities, congregating in absurdities, plan-
ning short-sightedly, plotting dementedly." Comedy is "humanely
malign"; it is neither warm with affection nor hot with anger; it is
Writing the Narrative 381
coolly dispassionate, intellectually ruthless to that which is unin-
telligent.
c. Light laughter exists on another plane that is ill-defined and
inexplicable. It is thoughtless laughter that may express anything
from mere animal good feeling to a sense of relief from restraint, or
from a feeling for the incongruous to a feeling of superiority.
(1) One manifestation of this light laughter is the laughter we
have for comic characters. In general, comic characters are those
in whom we are aware of exaggerated traits that do not offend us
morally. The clown in the circus, with his exaggerated shoes, nose,
and rags, is a comic character; Falstaff, with his exaggerated belly,
lechery, and lying is a comic character; the characters in the comedy
of humors, with certain traits exaggerated, are comic characters;
Moliere's Hypocrite (Tartuffe), Blue-Stockings (Les Precieuses
ridicules], Bores (Les Fdcheux), Misanthrope (Le Misanthrope) ,
and many other characters with exaggerated traits are comic. Almost
any writer may create a comic character by exaggeration; perhaps
other sorts of comic characters exist, and perhaps genius is required
for creating just the kind of exaggeration that is comic without be-
ing tiresome. But exaggeration of certain traits does produce comic
characters.
(2) Verbal comedy is the use of words and phrases that in them-
selves produce a laugh, almost regardless of their meaning. Puns,
or plays on words and double-meaning words, are humorous; we
laugh at them even when we deplore them. In English, a self-con-
scious use of big words (Johnsonese, it is called, after the great
Doctor) is laughable. Mispronunciations, especially by foreigners,
children, or certain races, are laughable in America, though other
nations do not seem to find mispronunciations funny. Misapplica-
tions of words (like Mrs. Malaprop's "know something of the geom-
etry of contagious countries") are comic. In a slightly more com-
plicated way, parodies and language incongruous with the character
using it are comic.
(3) Certain comic actions and situations may be manufactured
almost at will; Hollywood, indeed, does manufacture them delib-
382 Creative Writing
erately and cold-bloodedly in almost every motion picture. Most of
them may be classified under one or another of the following heads:
Moral turpitude (irreverence, deceit, cowardice) that is not so
serious as to cause actual moral indignation; absent-mindedness;
perplexity (the man who leaves his Pullman berth at night and
cannot find his way back); the amateur who is forced to do the
work of the expert ( the city boy milking a cow, the old curmudgeon
forced to take care of a baby, Harold Lloyd in nearly all his comedies
of a previous generation); people "caught in the act" of doing
something that they wish to keep secret (like kissing, eloping,
stealing jam, trying to deceive someone); turning the tables on a
villain, or "the worm turns" situation (the typical situation in the
Charlie Chaplin motion pictures, and in most Walt Disney cartoons
in which the little fellow turns the tables on his persecutor); the
mild discomfiture of anybody (chasing a hat, slipping on ice, a
woman with a shoe-heel caught in a grating, people doused with
water from a hose, well-dressed people being overwhelmed by an
affectionate dog who has just had an encounter with a skunk);
mechanical tricks like a chase, repetition or multiplication (the
drunken man who knocks not merely on one wrong door but on
five or six wrong doors in succession, the catch phrase continually
repeated, as in "Barkis is willing" and many others in Dickens,
triplets); stupidity (from Shakespeare's clowns and rustics down
to the latest stooge on television, village idiots, amiable drunks,
freshmen). There are others, but these are the most common, and
perhaps the most easily manufactured.
4. PREPARATION OF MANUSCRIPTS. A manuscript intended for
publication should have a professional look, and should be submitted
to the prospective publisher in a professional manner. Some hints
on professionalism follow:
a. All manuscripts should be typed (double-spaced) on only one
side of good, not too thin, typewriter paper. Substance 20 is about
the right weight; and 8/2 inches by 11 inches is the right size.
b. Margins should be left on every page as follows: At the top,
about 2 inches; at the left, 1/4 inches; at the bottom, % of an inch.
c. Every page should be numbered with Arabic numerals in the
Writing the Narrative 383
upper right corner. Do not number the pages at the bottom or in the
middle at the top. The first page need not be numbered.
d. Any manuscript submitted for publication in a magazine or
newspaper should bear the following items on the first page: (1) In
the upper left corner the name and the address to which checks or
correspondence must be sent by the publisher if any; (2) in the
upper right corner these words: "This manuscript contains ( number)
words. A Story" (or "An Article"); (3) the title in the middle of the
page (from left to right) and about four inches from the top of the
page; the title is usually not written in capitals, though all important
words and the first word and the last word in it are capitalized;
the author's name, or assumed name, as he wishes it to appear in
print. (Sometimes the name under which one wishes to have his
work appear is not exactly that under which he is generally known
at his mailing address, or under which he does business. But do not
use an assumed name unless you have good reason for doing so,
and unless you explain carefully to the prospective publisher why
you wish to do so. Editors do not like assumed names; they think
that if an author is ashamed or afraid to use his own name, they
should be ashamed or afraid to publish his work. )
e. A letter should accompany a manuscript sent unsolicited to
a magazine or to a newspaper under the following conditions only:
( 1 ) If the writer knows or has had correspondence with the editor;
( 2 ) If the writer wishes to explain ( very briefly ) why he considers
himself capable of writing on the subject he has chosen for ex-
ample, if he writes a story or an article about China, and has lived in
China, he should say briefly that he has lived in China. Sometimes
a note briefly identifying the author is clipped to the manuscript;
the note would read something like this: "Author is ex-Marine;
fought in China; contributor to Army newspapers; author of stories
previously published in magazine."
f. Short manuscripts (one to three pages) may be folded twice
across the page, like an ordinary business letter, placed in an or-
dinary long envelope, and mailed. Longer manuscripts (five to ten
pages) may be folded once across the middle of the page, and
mailed in a somewhat larger (manila) envelope. Longer manu-
884 Creative Writing
scripts should not; be folded at all, and should be mailed in a full-
size manila envelope. A page-size slip of cardboard is often sent
along with such a manuscript; it makes the postage higher, but it
saves crumpling the manuscript.
g. A stamped, self-addressed envelope the same size as the one
containing the manuscript should always be included with the
manuscript when it is mailed. It should be included even if the
author does not care to have the manuscript returned to him; for
unless the author has the manuscript back in his hands, he can
never know whether or not it has been rejected, and so can never
know whether or not he ought to try to sell it to another publisher.
h. It is illegal to send any kind of manuscript through the mails
without sealing it and paying first-class postage.
i. Book manuscripts should be sent by prepaid express, and in-
sured for about $100. The first page of the manuscript should con-
tain the author's name and address, a statement of the approximate
number of words in the manuscript, and some such sentence as this:
"If not accepted for publication, please return this manuscript
express collect to "
j. A letter stating the simple fact that you are sending a book
manuscript of such-and-such a title, that you hope the editors will
consider it for publication, and that if the manuscript is unaccepted
it is to be returned express collect such a letter should be mailed
on the same day that you send the manuscript. Most publishing
houses send you a printed card telling you that the manuscript has
arrived.
k. Unless you know the name of the editor of the magazine or
publishing company, address your manuscript to "The Editor."
Sometimes a company is so large that it has several departments as
College Department, Fiction Department, Juvenile Department
each with its own editor. Under these conditions, a subaddress to the
editor of such-and-such a department may be placed on the manu-
script. (Of course, if the editor communicates personally with the
author about a manuscript, the author will reply to the person
writing, not to the impersonal "editor." )
m. Make the order of contents in a book manuscript just like
Writing the Narrative 385
those of any book of a similar nature issued recently by a well-
established publishing house.
n. Ordinarily, publishers hire their own artists to illustrate fiction,
or even articles. Send your own illustrations only if they are charts
or figures clarifying an article, or if (once in a very great while)
they have a peculiar humor or charm that make them an integral
part of the literary work. Illustrations should be pasted lightly but
securely on separate sheets, with titles of illustrations written below
them.
EXERCISES
I. SOME PRELIMINARY DECISIONS
1. Length.
Look through several issues of several magazines that you might
like to write for, and estimate the number of words in their stories.
(Estimate by counting the number of words in about fifteen lines,
finding the average number of words per line, multiplying by the
number of lines per page, and then multiplying this figure by the
number of pages.)
2. Quantities in Fiction.
a. Look over some of the suggestions for stories listed in previous
exercises in this book, and determine which ones might be developed
into very long stories or novels by an accumulation of obstructions.
b. Mention at least three examples (characters or events) that
you could use in writing a convincing story on one of the following
themes:
College is very confusing to the student.
Most young people are troubled about religious beliefs.
Women don't love men who are too perfect.
Men don't love dominating women.
People don't learn by experience.
Perfectionists make themselves miserable, and don't succeed
in making the world perfect, either.
3. Style.
Be sure that you are familiar with the style and method of treat-
ing the subject in the novels of Dorothy Richardson, James Joyce,
Thomas Wolfe, and Virginia Woolf.
386 Creative Writing
4. Point of View.
Study the narratives suggested in different exercises of this book to
determine the point of view which would be most suitable for each
narrative.
Suppose you are writing some such story as this:
A young man graduates from college, goes into business, and
finds himself in charge of a group of working girls. He allows
himself to fall in love with one of the girls, though she has no
education, no culture, and no worthwhile background. Eventually,
however, the young man realizes that he and the girl are utterly
unsuited to each other. The theme is, of course, that oil and water
will not mix.
What point of view would you take if you were trying to show
the folly of the young man?
If you were trying to show the folly of the girl in thinking she
might permanently hold the affection of the young man?
If you were trying to show the different stages in the development
of the young man's feeling about the girl?
If you were trying to show the effect the whole affair might have
on the young man's character?
If you were chiefly interested in emphasizing the theme?
II. THE BEGINNING AND THE ENDING
1. Exposition.
Write an expository paragraph about the life and character of
some person you know, or some character discussed in the exercises
of this or preceding chapters; and then try to present this informa-
tion dramatically, as in the example given in the text.
2. The First Sentences.
Try to compose melodramatic first sentences like those given as
examples early in this section. Can you compose such sentences for
stories you have already written? Examine some of the very brief
stories frequently published in newspapers, and see how many of
them begin with melodrama in the first sentence so as to catch the
immediate attention of the hasty newspaper reader.
The instructor may mimeograph, or copy on the blackboard, the
first few sentences of several stories that have been submitted in his
classes, and ask the students to improve the beginnings in whatever
way they think best.
3. The Last Sentences.
Make a special study of the last sentences in some collection of
stories. Study the ends of stories you have written, and the ends of
Writing the Narrative 387
stories by other members of your class. Which ones seem altogether
satisfactory? Why? How can the others be improved?
III. THE BODY OF THE NARRATIVE
1. Suspense.
Invent as many devices as you can for getting suspense in a nar-
rative that you might write about
A journey by train, bus, private car, or ship.
A young man who has arrived penniless in your town.
A girl who wants a certain young man to propose to her.
A passenger plane that has one motor fail in mid air.
Any of the stories suggested in any of the exercises of this book.
2. Creating Characters.
a. Which characters in stories you have written have some basis
in real life? How do your fictional characters differ from the real
ones? Get your fellow students to answer the same questions.
Write a brief character sketch of one of the following people
whom you know personally:
An old man.
An old woman.
A college boy.
A college girl.
A college professor.
A working girl.
b. Write a brief character sketch of one of the characters just
mentioned by making him exaggeratedly typical. Then, in another
sketch, make one of the characters incongruously nontypical. Then
make one in which some one trait is much exaggerated. Then char-
acterize one by means of some obvious external peculiarity.
c. Tell about several characters who arouse conflicting emotions
in you.
3. Portraying Characters.
In each of the ways mentioned in the text, characterize three of
the individuals listed above, or three characters of your own ac-
quaintance or invention.
4. Creating a Background.
By what means (one or several) would you reconstruct the fol-
lowing backgrounds imaginatively:
Your high school.
Your college.
388 Creative Writing
Your social class.
The part of town in which you live.
Some distant community where you have visited.
Your mother's girlhood.
IV. INCIDENTALS
1. Dialogue.
Take some parable of the New Testament, some episode of the
Old Testament, some fable from Aesop, or some narrative episode
summarized in a modern story or novel, and tell it with much dia-
logue.
2. Titles.
The instructor should list the titles of twenty or more stories that
have been submitted in his classes, and have the students discuss
their merits and their defects.
3. Humor.
Try to think up comic actions or situations (involving all those
listed in the text) that will center about
A college student.
A college professor.
Appendix
Since everything is grist for a writer's mill, students of writing are likely
to ask questions on every conceivable subject. Some of the questions that
are often asked in classes presided over by the author of this book, to-
gether with his answers, follow:
Q. Do you think a writer needs inspiration in order to write well?
A. Inspiration is a vague word. Once in a while a brilliant idea strikes
a person it doesn't seem to come from anywhere in particular. Then the
fortunate person who has been struck has to do a lot of hard thinking to
develop the mere idea into a complete work. More often, a person who
has been doing a lot of hard thinking about some topic, without getting
anywhere, suddenly feels a clarifying idea shoot through him every-
thing that has been confusing him now falls into place. Ideas coming like
this may be called inspiration. But perhaps you imply that one shouldn't
write until he feels inspired, until he feels a spirit moving him. Don't wait
for that kind of inspiration. You must write whether you feel like it or
not; write routinely. Once in every few weeks or few months, to be sure,
a writer may feel that he can't possibly sit down to his desk and write; he
feels that he will die, or at any rate get sick, if he does. On these oc-
casions, he should take one or two days' vacation. But only on these very
widely scattered days does one have a valid excuse for not writing. Mary
Roberts Rinehart says somewhere that the average professional writer sits
down to his desk with as much enthusiasm as if he were sitting down to a
dish of cold boiled turnips.
Q. Should a writer keep a notebook?
A. Most of the best writers do. Everybody has one or two clever or
original or penetrating thoughts every day. If you don't jot those thoughts
down immediately, you forget them. It is a good plan to jot them down
on any old envelope or other piece of paper that is handy, and enter them
in the notebook at night. It is also a good idea to keep the notebook by
one's bed at night. The most brilliant thoughts often come to one just be-
fore sleep; and if they are not set down then and there, they will have
vanished by morning.
Q. How about keeping a journal?
A. Young writers especially can profit immensely by keeping a journal.
It gets a young writer into the habit of writing something almost every
389
390 Creative Writing
day, whether or not he feels like it; it teaches him to see something worthy
of comment in everyday life; and it accustoms him to expressing himself
without too many inhibitions. Besides, the more writing one does, the
more facile one becomes in writing.
Q. Would you advise a prospective writer to go into newspaper work?
A. Newspaper work is unimaginative; it allows no writer (except a
few columnists) to express his personality; it has a certain stereotyped
form of composition; it almost necessarily falls into stereotyped phrases;
and it puts no value on beauty or appropriateness of style. As a rule,
therefore, a long period of newspaper work is bad for the creative writer.
A short period may be useful because it may train him to write regularly,
clearly, and concisely.
Q. How should a person who doesn't have an independent income go
about adopting writing as a career?
A. Women should marry, get somebody to support them, and sit down
and write while their husbands are off at work. If they have children, they
may have to wait ten or fifteen years, till the children get into school, and
allow their mother a few hours' peace every day. Men have it harder.
They should get a job that will not be too taxing physically, and then try
to write in the evenings and over week ends, holidays, and vacations.
This takes moral courage, persistence, patience, and self-sacrifice (as well
as sacrifice of one's wife). But if you write only 300 words a day for five
days a week, you will have a novel within a year.
Q. Is teaching a good means of earning a living while one is writing?
A. Yes with qualifications. Teaching in the public schools (especially
in the junior high schools) can tax one's nerves and physical stamina to
the utmost so that no mental or physical energy is left over for writing.
On the other hand, teaching in the elementary grades, and sometimes in
high school, may be relatively pleasant. And all teaching leaves most of
the evenings, Saturdays, Sundays, long holidays at Thanksgiving, Easter,
and Christmas, and the summer months free for writing. Teaching in col-
lege is more satisfying in some ways. But the very serious drawback here
is that you will be expected to do "research" either for advanced degrees
or for advancement in the profession. Research will not only consume all
your spare hours, but will also tend more and more to make you a critic
and a scholar rather than a creative writer. Only certain very obstinate
and unimpressionable people can succeed in both scholarly and creative
writing.
Q. Can one expect, eventually, to make a good livng at writing?
A. A good many people get rich at it; but a very large majority of even
well-established professional writers have only a fair competence, not
wealth; and most have to supplement their incomes by other work.
Appendix 391
Q. Which is more profitable writing for magazines or writing books?
A. In general, writing for magazines is more profitable. But, of course,
certain books make a great deal of money for the author. Furthermore,
writing for the poorer class, "pulp" magazines is not really lucrative unless
you can turn out enormous amounts of copy, and there is no honor in
writing for these magazines. Therefore, not counting the occasional writer
who can produce ten novels and a hundred stories per year, a writer who
cannot write good literature would probably do better financially if he
got a job in a large corporation, and worked up in it. To be sure, if he
wishes to make a little extra money occasionally, and has time to write,
he can try writing for the pulps. But, as a rule, he should write as well as
he can, try to be proud of his work, get some satisfaction from self-
expression and the act of creation, and (until he becomes well established
as an author) depend on his job with the corporation for his livelihood.
Q. Should one send his work off directly to the magazines and book
publishers, or should one have a literary agent?
A. That is still an unsolved problem. Most magazines and book pub-
lishers do examine the unsolicited manuscripts that come to them; on the
other hand, they undoubtedly look with greater attention at manuscripts
coming to them from a reliable agent. But most reliable agents do not
like to handle the work of embryo authors; and the agents who solicit the
manuscripts of amateur authors are often worse than useless they may
be merely frauds and bloodsuckers.
Q. How does the new writer possibly get out of this dilemma?
A. He can do three things. First, he should keep on sending his ma-
terial to prospective markets among the widely read magazines; in par-
ticular, he should enter all prize contests in which he thinks his work
might have a chance. Next, he should send material to the "little" maga-
zines, which pay little or nothing for manuscripts, but publication in
which encourages the larger magazines to look favorably on other work
by the same author. Finally, he should associate with literary people
that is, not people who try to be literary, or think they are literary, but
truly literary people. Sometimes, especially in small communities, this is
difficult. But, if possible, he should go to places where established writers
and teachers of writing are likely to be. He should not force himself upon
them, but he should try to become acquainted with them, hear their lec-
tures, visit their classes, talk with them at gatherings. He should write to
authors whose work he likes, especially local authors, and keep up a
correspondence with them. He should not hurry matters but eventually
some of these people will find out that he writes, and will ask to see his
work, or will consent to look over some of it. Except by specific request,
the first manuscript submitted to these people should be short. If these
Creative Writing
people judge that the young writer has any possibilities, they will be glad
to encourage him, to criticize his work, and to recommend him to agents
and publishers. Writers and critics and teachers of writing are busy peo-
ple; they do not have time to help everybody who has written something,
or to criticize in detail long novels that total strangers thrust at them.
Still, they are always glad to discover and to encourage talent. If the
young writer will try to be unselfish and considerate, he will find that
most other people will be the same.
Q. Should a young writer frequent writers' groups?
A. He should certainly frequent writing groups in college. Members
of these groups are better read, more seriously interested in writing, and
more capable of criticism than are groups made up of the public at large.
Moreover, college groups have the leadership and sponsorship of some
professor whose opinions are sometimes valuable. Groups made up of the
general public have low literary standards, as a rule, are poor critics, and
do not have competent leadership. Even college writing groups have ful-
filled their function for most people after a few years. "Incentives come
from the soul's self," Browning wrote. "The rest avail not." As you grow
older, you must more and more depend upon yourself, not on other peo-
ple, for your incentives.
Q. Do you imply that we should not heed the criticism of others?
A. Criticism is a profession; do not trust amateurs. Above all, never,
never listen to your mother's criticism of your work, or your best friend's,
or your wife's or husband's, or your roommate's. It is a safe rule to do
always just the opposite of what they advise. College professors are some-
times good critics (but not always); so are some professional writers.
Listen to their criticism, pass judgment on it for yourself, and heed it if
it seems sensible. Remember that personal taste has little to do with
criticism. The person who says of your manuscript, "I like it," or, "I don't
like it," is helping you very little. He is a statistic, nothing more. He is not
a critic. To be a critic, one must have read a great deal of good literature,
must have thought about it, must be able to tell why he likes or dislikes
a piece of writing, and must understand that his personal likes and dis-
likes have no relation to the literary value of a piece of writing. By way of
illustration, I myself thoroughly dislike the major part of John Gals-
worthy's work; yet I am thoroughly convinced that he is a much greater
writer than many people whom I like much better.
Q. Should a writer seek other people's advice while he is writing a
book or a story?
A. Definitely not except to seek mere information about facts. Talk-
ing about a book or a story is likely to get it out of your system, as it
were, and make you less eager to get it down on paper, less interested in
Appendix 393
writing it. Furthermore, if you tell other people that you are writing for
publication, and then don't get published, you will have a lot of explain-
ing to do. It is best just not to talk.
Q. Should one ever pay to have his work published?
A. In general, no. On the other hand, if one wants to see his work in
print, and is willing to spend the money to get it into print, there is no
reason why he shouldn't do so. It is a hobby considerably less expensive
than collecting antiques or keeping a boat, and considerably more harm-
less than betting on horses or maintaining a private bar. One may indulge
it if one wishes. One's great-grandchildren will probably treasure the self-
published volumes of their ancestor. Furthermore, poetry (even good
poetry) seldom pays its own way; much of it can be published only at
the author's expense. One of the classics of our time, or of all time,
Housman's A Shropshire Lad, was published at the author's expense. But
one must not think that self-published work is a paying proposition; only
very exceptionally does one ever get back the money put into such a
project.
Q. What about writing for the movies?
A. Forget it. When the movies want you to write for them, they will
tell you. The larger motion picture houses have a staff of editors whose
only job is to pore through current novels and magazine stories to find
suitable material. Once they have selected material that they wish to use,
they may ask the author to come and help them. In addition to these
editors, publishers and authors' agents are continually bringing promising
works to the attention of the motion picture companies. Finally, most of
the companies have a permanent staff of professional writers who have
worked up in the business gradually. One doesn't "break into" the busi-
ness of writing for the movies.
Q. You mentioned agents?
A. Yes. The agent is more for the established writer than for the
amateur. The professional writer himself doesn't have time to learn all
the markets or to try to crash them; he is too busy writing.
Q. When one sends a manuscript to a publisher, how long will it be
before the publisher makes a decision one way or the other?
A. Give the publisher six weeks or two months if the manuscript is
intended for a magazine; but most magazines answer much sooner. A
book publisher may take longer. Manuscripts that are being favorably
considered take a longer time than others; and manuscripts sent in the
summer, when many people on the publisher's staff are away on vacation,
take longer. In any event, if you have heard nothing from the prospective
publisher within three months, write to him politely and ask him whether
he has made a decision yet.
394 Creative Writing
Q. Do manuscripts ever get lost?
A. It has happened but very uncommonly. But as a hedge, always,
always keep a carbon copy of your manuscript. This is an elementary rule.
Q. Should you keep sending out manuscripts after they have been
once rejected?
A. Of course! It is true that some manuscripts could probably be
published in only three or four places. Try them all. Other manuscripts
are more general. Do not give up till you have got at least fifteen
rejections.
Q. How can you find out where to send manuscripts?
A. The Writers Digest, published at 21 East 12th Street, Cincin-
nati 10, Ohio, and The Writer, 8 Arlington Street, Boston 16, Massachu-
setts, not only publish addresses and requirements of publishers, but also
advertise many good books on the business angle of writing. Buy copies
of these magazines at the newsstands, or send for sample copies or sub-
scription rates.
Q. In class you have spoken frequently of "unprofessional looking"
manuscripts; what do you mean?
A. Manuscripts written with a typewriter ribbon that should have
been discarded months ago; letters like e and o clogged so that they make
round black spots on the paper; small margins; single-spaced lines; pages
pinned or stapled together; pages numbered somewhere but in the upper
right corner.
Q. Should the typing of the manuscript be absolutely perfect?
A. Not necessarily. Be reasonably neat and always legible. But if you
want to change a word or two on a page, run a line through the word,
and write the correct word above it, either in ink (with printed letters)
or with the typewriter. Don't rewrite an entire page because one or two
words are wrong; but make the first page flawless. The point is that you
need not be perfect, and yet your page ought not to look messy. When
in doubt, do it over.
Q. Suppose you want to make insertions after the manuscript is com-
pleted and numbered?
A. Number the inserted pages a, b, and so on; thus pages inserted
after page 15 would be 15a, 15b, and so on. Sometimes you can paste on
an addition at the bottom of a page, and then fold the over-length page
to normal size.
Q. Should one write in longhand first, and then type off the final
copy? Or should one compose on the typewriter?
A. Some people compose better in longhand, some think they com-
pose better on the typewriter. I recommend longhand, but wouldn't insist
on it.
Appendix 395
Q. Can you give any suggestions about the best working methods for
a writer?
A. Different people have different methods. Carlyle thought he had
to have a soundproof room to write in; Jane Austen wrote in the family
living room with the ordinary life of a large household going on about her.
Some people think everything out beforehand, and then write it down;
some people work out all the details as they go. Some people work in the
early morning before other people in the family are up (Anthony Trol-
lope produced numberless volumes this way); some people work only at
night; some people work at any hour. One should remember, however,
that it is easy to rationalize, easy to persuade oneself that conditions are
not just right for working that it is too soon after a meal, or too soon
after exercise, or too late at night, or that others will be disturbed by one's
typewriter, or that one will think more clearly later in the day, or that
one is too sleepy from staying up too late last night, or that the weather
is too hot, or that the poor light will injure one's eyes, or that one had
better wait to get somebody else's opinion before going further, or that all
work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. One should remember that con-
ditions for writing are never perfect. A passage from Macaulay describing
the conditions under which Milton wrote has already been quoted in this
book; it is worth quoting again: "Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age,
nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor
abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to" prevent him from
writing Paradise Lost. One should not wait for conditions to be perfect;
one should just sit down and write.
Q. But suppose one sits down to write, and no writing comes?
A. Get a piece of clean paper, write "The" on it, and then write an-
other word to go with "The," and then write a word to go with that word,
and so on. You may have to throw away your first paragraph or first page
later on; but that is a minor matter.
Q. How does one keep from being bored with one's own writing?
A. One doesn't. There are always times when one is bored with writ-
ing. But the amount of boredom can often be reduced if you will concen-
trate on the art, or craftsmanship, of your work. Don't try to tell the story
too fast. Strew little jewels of style and description through it, and stop to
polish these jewels carefully. Perfect your sentences; seek for the best of
all possible words to fit your feeling; try to create rhythms and patterns
of letter-sounds. You will be surprised to find how much these devices
help you over your boredom.
Q. How does one keep from growing discouraged about one's own
writing when one reads the so-much-better writing of other people?
A. It is not always better writing; usually it is just different writing.
396 Creative Writing
"I cannot carry forests on my back," said the squirrel to the boastful
mountain, "but neither can you crack a nut." Jane Austen couldn't write
like Sir Walter Scott, Conrad couldn't write like Dickens, and Eudora
Welty can't write like Hemingway. Don't get discouraged because you
can't write like other people; write like yourself.
Q. Why should people read fiction? How can the fiction-writer justify
his existence?
A. A full answer to that question would fill a book. Fiction entertains;
it gives information; it makes readers better acquainted with the possi-
bilities and the intricacies of human nature; it reveals certain philosophi-
cal truths or laws of life; it gives a certain meaning or interpretation to
the confused details of life; it presents ideals of belief, or emotion, or
conduct that humanity might not know without reading of them in fiction;
it re-creates the faiths, the customs, the ways of life of other peoples than
one's own; it has something of the value of laboratory work in the study
of a science, in that it gives vivid concrete examples of general truths that
would mean little to students or readers were it not for the concrete exam-
ples; and it exercises the reader in the use of emotions that, the more they
are used, are the more easily aroused. In this last respect, fiction has im-
mense propagandistic value that is being recognized and utilized more
and more by many specialized interests and points of view. Perhaps it
should be added in this connection that the fiction-writer has a moral
responsibility to see that his work contributes to the intellectual, emo-
tional, and moral welfare of humanity. The fiction-writer is today's most
influential preacher. But the instant he forgets that he is a fiction-writer
and not a preacher, he is lost.
Q. Why do so many of the best writers like to write about unpleasant
topics? And why do so many of them have radical ideas?
A. Writers write because they are obsessed with an idea or a feeling
about something, and because they want to tell people about the idea or
the feeling that obsesses them. Since nobody but a complete bore wants
to tell people about what people already think and feel, the writer tells
them about what they don't think and feel already. And then people call
him unpleasant and radical.
Q. What do people like in fiction? That is, what makes a best seller?
A. Thousands of publishers, authors, and booksellers would give a
fortune to know the answer to that one. Sometimes a book becomes a
best seller because it appears at precisely the right time; a little later or
a little earlier, and it would not sell at all. Sometimes it becomes a best
seller because it is in fashion. (By the way, you can get some idea of the
kinds of books that are currently in fashion by looking in the classified
lists at the back of the last volume of the Book Review Digest, and find-
Appendix 397
ing which kinds of books are most numerous.) But, everything else being
equal, a book will sell if it has the following characteristics: (1) suspense;
(2) reader identification that is, a main character with whose desires
and struggles and troubles the reader can sympathize as if they were
his own; (3) some scenes of strong emotional appeal; (4) at least one
very extraordinary character at whom the reader can marvel; (5) an
interesting background; (6) information historical, biographical, geo-
graphical, sociological, psychological, scientific; (7) a touch of sex won't
do any harm but don't overdo it; (8) variety in episodes, scenes, and
characters; (9) contrasts everywhere; (10) ideas philosophical, socio-
logical, psychological, moral, political, religious.
Indexes
Index of Proper Names
Absolute, Anthony, 369
Adam Bede, 135, 378
Addison, Joseph, 18, 39, 41, 144
Adventures among Books, 115
"JEs Triplex," 61
Aesop, 356, 388
Agassiz, Louis, 152
Age of Innocence, The, 333
Mice in Wonderland, 269, 312
Allen, Frederick L., 249
"Ambitious Guest, The," 17, 339, 365
American Forests, 249, 250
American Magazine, 251, 360
American Mercury, The, 249, 250, 360
And Tell of Time, 379
Andersen, Hans Christian, 269
Anderson, Sherwood, 378
Anthony Adverse, 212
Antony, Mark, 24, 214, 371
Antony and Cleopatra, 316
Arabian Nights, The, 269
Archer, William, 268
Ariel, 24
Aristotle, 268, 270, 277
Arnold, Matthew, 17, 55, 66, 96, 135
Ascham, Roger, 218
Asia, 249
Atlantic Monthly, 192, 249, 250, 251,
321, 335, 357
Austen, Jane, 100, 284, 311, 395, 396
Axelle, 198
Babbitt, 320
Babbitt, George, 333
Back to Methuselah, 257
Bacon, Francis, 27, 191, 218
Bahamas Murder Case, The, 377
Balzac, Honore de, 365, 368
Beard, Charles, 199
Beard, Mary, 199
Beer, Thomas, 249
Beerbohm, Max, 180
401
Behn, Aphra, 26
Bell for Adano, A, 379
"Bells, The," 112
Benchley, Robert, 41
Bennett, Arnold, 135, 157, 183, 283,
296,311,313,331,375
Benoit, Pierre, 198
Beowulf, 98
Bergson, Henri, 173, 258
Best American Short Stories, 335
Bible, the, 17, 27, 28, 38, 73, 74, 110,
114, 126, 128, 139, 298 n., 356, 388
Bierce, Ambrose, 118
Billings, Josh, 41
Blake, William, 219
"Bliss," 322
Book Review Digest, 286, 396
BoswelL James, 83, 169, 183, 185
Bowers, Claud, 249
Bradford, Roark, 138
Bridge of San Luis Key, The, 366
Browning, Robert, 76, 291, 302, 392
Brutus, 316, 370
Buck, Frank, 169
Bulfinch, Thomas, 54, 55
Burke, Edmund, 10, 173
Bums, Robert, 28
Butler, Samuel, 27
Byron, Lord, 24, 26
Cabell, James Branch, 63, 138, 283,
285
Cable, George W., 286, 317, 372
Caesar, Julius, 204
Caliban, 24
Canterbury Tales, 315, 365
Cardinal, The, 378
Carlyle, Thomas, 27, 61, 71, 109, 135,
218, 373, 395
Carrie, Sister, 333
Carton, Sidney, 347
Gary, Joyce, 3 f .
402
Index of Proper Names
'Cask of Amontillado, The," 281, 344 Current History, 249, 251
Casterbridge, Mayor of, 314
Gather, Wflla, 96, 147
Catholic World, 251
Cellini, Benvenuto, 196
Chance, 271
Channing, Edward, 199
Chaplin, Charles, 382
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 194, 195, 283, 315
Chekhov, Anton, 16, 278 ff., 311
Cherry Orchard, The, 379
Chesterfield, Earl of, 74
Childe Harold, 24, 26
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower
Came," 76
Chips and Scraps, 173
Cibber, Colley, 369
Cicero, 220
Cloister and the Hearth, The, 321
"Cloud, The," 52
Colby, Frank, 31
Coleridge, S. T., 165, 185, 371
College English, 243
Colliers, 250
Comedy of Errors, 109
Comfortable, Lady, 369
Commentaries, 204
"Congo, The," 110
Congreve, William, 194, 195
Conrad, Joseph, 42, 100, 111, 115,
116, 271, 281, 283, 293, 313, 319,
321, 323, 346, 350, 355, 368, 378,
396
Consumer s Research, 251
Cooper, Frederic Taber, 22
Cooper, James Fenimore, 371
Copperfield, David, 333
Copperfield, Dora, 24
Corbett, James, 363
"Coward, The," 339
Cowley, Abraham, 144
Cowper, William, 26
Craddock, Charles Egbert, 286, 317,
373
Crane, Stephen, 286, 339
Crime and Punishment, 316
Croce, Benedetto, 137, 138, 153, 158,
258
Cruncher, Jeremy, 325, 369
Crusoe, Robinson, 319
Cry, the Beloved Country, 377
Cyrano de Bergerac, 366
Darwin, Charles, 169, 170, 171
Daudet, Alphonse, 150, 368
"Daughters of the Late Colonel, The,"
322, 343
David Copperfield, 135, 378
Davidson, John, 144
"Death of the Dauphin, The," 151
Debs, Eugene V., 27
Decline and Fall of the Roman Em-
pire, The, 36
Defoe, Daniel, 135, 283, 284
de la Roche, Mazo, 100
Dickens, Charles, 24, 96, 135, 157,
283, 284, 293, 314, 317, 331, 368,
374, 382, 396
Disney, Walt, 382
Doll's House, The, 316
Dombey, Paul, 24
Don Quixote, 296, 344, 372
"Door of the Trap, The," 378
Dos Passes, John, 40, 283, 286, 293,
297, 334
"Double-Dyed Deceiver, The," 270
Draper, Sir William, 69
Dreiser, Theodore, 286, 293, 331
Dryden, John, 68
Dunsany, Lord, 374
Durant, Will, 257
Ecclesiastes, 27, 38, 51
"Edward," 11
Eggleston, Edward, 286
Egoist, The, 339, 340
Egyptian, The, 378
"Elegy in a Country Churchyard,"
151
Eliot, George, 135, 150, 153, 156, 158,
284
Eliot, T. S., 128, 300, 305
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 97, 191, 220.
317
Emile, 36
Enemy of the People, An, 357
"Enthusiast, The," 339
Epistle to the Romans, 69
Fabre, Henri, 27, 169
Fdcheux, Les, 381
Index of Proper Names
403
Fall of the House of Usher, The," Hardy, Thomas, 197, 271, 284, 293,
135, 158
Falstaff, 381
Farewell to Arms, A, 366
Farrell, James T., 286
Faulkner, William, 42, 128, 138, 279,
283, 313, 317, 322
Fielding, Henry, 194, 195, 283, 314
Figures of Earth, 64
Finnegan's Wake, 305
Fischer, John, 257
Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 333
Flaubert, Gustave, 146, 149, 373
For Whom the Bell Tolls, 283, 347,
379
Forbes Magazine, 250
Forever Amber, 312, 378
Fortune, 249, 251
"Fra Lippo Lippi," 302
France, Anatole, 40
Franklin, Benjamin, 27
Freeman, Mary Wilkins, 317
Freud, Sigmund, 206, 299, 307
Gattions Reach, 79
Galsworthy, John, 15, 40, 96, 99, 109,
286, 296, 313, 334, 351, 392
Garrod, H. W., 206
Gay, John, 26
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, 249
George, Henry, 26
Gibbon, Edward, 36, 42
Gilbert, W. S., 270
Glasgow, Ellen, 101, 286, 322
Glendower, 24, 372
"Gold Bug, The," 135
Gone with the Wind, 312 379
Good Companions, The, 157
Gosse, Edmund, 204
Graustark, 285
Gray, Thomas, 151
Great Expectations, 159, 344
Great Gatsby, The, 333
Gulliver's Travels, 41, 343
Hacker, Louis M., 199
Hadley, Arthur Twining, 258
Hamlet, 23, 24, 99, 140, 273, 316,
339, 370
Hamlet, 140, 272, 315, 319, 344, 347, Jungle, The, 250
346, 364
Harper's Bazaar, 378
Harpers Magazine, 175, 192, 249,
250, 251, 257, 335, 360
Harris, Joel Chandler, 138, 373
Harte, Bret, 278, 286, 317, 344, 370
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 17, 283, 339,
365, 373
Hazlitt, William, 214, 290
Hearn, Lafcadio, 292
Heart of Darkness, 281, 293, 319, 321,
346, 365, 378
Heart of Midlothian, 135
Keep, Uriah, 369
Hemingway, Ernest, 42, 56, 283, 293,
313, 331, 333, 396
Henry, O., 83, 96, 100, 270, 271, 278,
310, 373
Henry, Patrick, 62
Henry IV, Part I, 314, 371
Henry V, 24, 371
"Her First Ball," 293
Hewlett, Maurice, 138
Hotspur, 24, 371, 372
House and Garden, 249
Housman, A. E., 393
Huxley, Aldous, 40
Huxley, T. H., 125, 135, 220
Ibsen, Henrik, 286, 357
Innocents Abroad, 26
In Old Creole Days, 372, 379
Irving, Washington, 78, 140, 151
Isaiah, 27
Ivanhoe, 135, 196, 317, 373
James, Henry, 284, 286
James, William, 169, 220, 258
Jefferson, Thomas, 173, 218
Jewett, Sarah Orne, 373
Johnson, Samuel, 18, 26, 39, 67, 63,
72, 74, 82, 185, 381
Jones, Howard Mumford, 192
Jones, Tom, 333
Jonson, Ben, 290, 369
Joyce, James, 195, 279, 305
Julius Caesar, 316, 322, 370
Jung, Carl, 206, 307
366
Jungle Books, The, 343
404
Junius, 69-70
jurgen, 285
Justice, 296, 351
Index of Proper Names
Keats, John, 142, 150, 153
Kenyan Review, 285, 335
Kiil, Morten, 357
"Killers, The," 293, 333, 365
King Lear, 347
King's Cavalier, The, 378
Kingsley, Charles, 317
Kipling, Rudyard, 100, 109, 116, 147,
278, 293, 347, 354, 372
Kittredge, G. L., 169
Kittti Foyle, 378
Krutch, Joseph Wood, 346
La Bruyere, Jean de, 27
La Fontaine, Jean de, 26
La Rochefoucauld, Due de, 27, 326
Ladies Home Journal, 251, 335
"Lady of Shalott, The," 111, 116
Lady Windermere's Fan, 325, 379
Laertes, 24
Lamb, Charles, 135, 180, 258
Lang, Andrew, 115
Languish, Lydia, 369
Lawrence, D. H., 339, 368
Leacock, Stephen, 180
Lear, King, 339
Lee, Henry, 10, 13
Lewis, Sinclair, 40, 96, 283, 286, 293,
331, 334
Life, 250, 251
Light that Failed, The, 379
Lincoln, Abraham, 12
Lindsay, Vachel, 110
Little Man, What Now?, 248
"Little Soldier," 156
Liza of Lambeth, 60
Lloyd, Harold, 382
Locke, John, 169, 191
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 216
"Lodging for the Night, A," 266
Logic for the Millions, 222
Lord Jim, 346
"Lotos-Eaters, The," 111, 116
Lovelady, Lord, 369
"Lovely Lady, The," 339
Love's Labours Lost, 344
Lowes, J. L., 169
McCutcheon, George B., 285
McKerrow, R. B., 259
MacArthur, Douglas, 233
Macaulay, Thomas B., 17, 96, 128,
167, 168, 185, 233, 395
Macbeth, 24, 316, 339
Macbeth, 315, 319
Macduff, 24
Mackail, J. W., 313
Macpherson, James, 72, 74
Mademoiselle, 378
Maeterlinck, Maurice, 27, 169
Malaprop, Mrs., 213, 381
Mander, A. E., 222-223
Mandeville, John, 11 f., 13
Mann, Isabel, 257
Mann, Thomas, 284
Mansfield, Katherine, 16, 96, 293, 322,
323, 339
Marius the Epicurean, 117
Marner, Silas, 314, 343
Marquand, J. P., 279, 286
Marx, Karl, 206
"Masque of the Red Death," 281
Masson, David, 313
Master of Ballantrae, The, 354
Matthews, Brander, 219
Maugham, Somerset, 60, 96, 368
Maupassant, Guy de, 13, 146, 156,
277 ff., 286, 339, 344, 358, 368, 373
Mauve Decade, The, 249
Meiklejohn, Alexander, 258
Men of the Nineties, 21
Meredith, George, 339, 380
Micawber, Mr. and Mrs., 369
Midsummer Night's Dream, 325
Mill, John Stuart, 219
Millikan, Robert A., 219
Milton, John, 27, 28, 362, 395
Mind in the Making, The, 238
"Miracle of Purun Baghat, The," 347,
372
Misanthrope, Le, 379
Mis4rables, Les, 316
"Miss Brill," 322
Moby Dick, 365
Moliere, 381
MoU Flanders, 296
Monsieur Beaucaire, 285
Montaigne, Michel Je, 191
Morley, Christopher, 180
Morte tf Arthur, 110
Index of Proper Names
405
Mowgli, 343
Muddiman, Bernard, 21
"Municipal Report, A," 310
Napoleon, 184-185
Nation, The, 243
National Geographic Magazine, 187,
249
New Arabian Nights, 266 n.
New Republic, 243, 251
New Yorker, 41, 251, 357
Newman, John Henry, 126
Nightwatch, The, 196
Octavius, 24
"Ode to the West Wind," 52
Of Human Bondage, 379
Oklahoma, 379
"Old Maid, The," 13
Old Wives' Tale, The, 296, 314, 346,
372, 375
Only Yesterday, 249
Ophelia, 23, 273
Oregon Trail, The, 186
OTrigger, Sir Lucius, 369
"Outcasts of Poker Flat, The," 344
Page, Thomas N., 138, 317
Paradise Lost, 282, 395
Parents' Magazine, 249
Parkman, Francis, 186
Partisan Review, 335
Pascal, Blaise, 27
Pater, Walter, 94, 96, 97, 117, 126
Paul, Saint, 27, 69, 73, 95, 290
Peg Woffington, 378
Pepys, Samuel, 183
Perry, Ralph Barton, 19
Perseus, 196
Personal Record, A, 112
Pickwick Papers, 135
"Piece of String, A," 344
Pilgrim's Progress, 283
Pirates of Penzance, The, 270
"Pit and the Pendulum, The," 281
Plato, 169, 173, 220
Poe, Edgar Allan, 108, 112, 135, 151,
158, 266, 281, 344
Poetry, 305
Pope, Alexander, 27, 97, 112
Portor, Laura Spencer, 257
Precieuses ridicules, Les, 381
Prester, John, 11, 12, 13
Priestley, J. B., 100, 156
Prometheus Unbound, 8f.
Proust, Marcel, 293
Proverbs, 27, 38, 218
Psalms, 27, 77
Purdy, Theodore, Jr., 197
Quasimodo, 314
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 91 ff., 220
Rabelais, Francois, 98
Rain, 316
Rambler, 18
Reade, Charles, 321
Red Badge of Courage, The, 339
Reflections in a Golden Eye, 377
Rembrandt van Rijn, 196
Review of English Studies, 259
Richardson, Samuel, 229, 284
Riders to the Sea, 273
Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 389
Roads of Destiny, 271
Robinson, J. H., 238
Robinson Crusoe, 312, 343
Roderick Random, 378
Rodin, Auguste, 197
Rogers, Agnes, 175
Rogers, Will, 41
Romeo and Juliet, 325, 347
Romola, 135
Roosevelt, Franklin D., 207
Roosevelt, Theodore, 62, 186
Ross, Edward A., 21
Rousseau, J. J., 36, 173
Ruskin, John, 71, 75, 117, 126, 147,
206, 298 n.
Russell, Bertrand, 218
Saki, 293
Salambo, 149, 373
Samson, 347
Sandburg, Carl, 128
Saroyan, William, 279
Saturday Evening Post, 251, 335, 343
Saturday Review of Literature, 197,
249
Scarlet Letter, The, 319
Schiller, J. C. F., 279
Schlesinger, Arthur M., Jr., 199
Schopenhauer, Arthur, 173, 219, 257
406
Index of Proper Names
Schwed, Fred, Jr., 257
.rScott, Sir Walter, 135, 138, 142, 157,
194, 268, 283, 284, 317, 365, 371,
373, 396
Scribners Magazine, 192, 250
Sea and the Jungle, The, 186, 379
"Secret Sharer, The," 281
Sewanee Review, 305
Shakespeare, William, 24, 27, 28, 96,
99, 109, 126, 142, 149, 153, 194,
195, 206, 214, 273, 283, 322, 325,
339, 371, 373
Sharp, Becky, 314, 333
Shaw, George Bernard, 27, 40, 257,
313, 374
Shelley, Percy B., 8, 18, 51
Sheridan, Richard B., 369
Shropshire Lad, A, 393
Sidney, Sir Philip, 218
Silas Marner, 135, 319
Silver Cord, The, 343, 344
Sinclair, Upton, 250
"Skylark, The/' 52
Smith, Alexander, 180 f.
Smollett, Tobias, 194, 195, 284
Social Control, 21
Soldiers Three, 354
Song of Songs, The, 27
Sound and the Fury, The, 322
Spectator, 18, 41
Spengler, Oswald, 169, 194
Steele, Richard, 20, 369
Steele, Wilbur Daniel, 100
Steinbeck, John, 40, 286, 317, 331
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 26, 61, 78,
96, 97, 140, 157
Stockmann, Dr., 357
Strange Interlude, 196
Swift, Jonathan, 41
Swinburne, Algernon C., 117, 204
Synge, J. M., 373
Tale of Two Cities, A, 135, 325, 347
Tarkington, Booth, 285
Tartuffe, 381
Toiler, 20
Tawney, Richard Henry, 199
Tempest, The, 151
Tennyson, Alfred, 27, 109, 110, 111,
112, 142
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 283,
284, 317
Theophrastus, 27
This Week, 251
Thinker, The, 197
Thomas, Norman, 26
Thompson, Francis, 78
Thoreau, H. D., 219
Thurber, James, 41
Time, 251
Tobacco Road, 379
"Tobermory," 294
Tom Jones, 296, 320, 378
Tomlinson, H. M., 78, 186
Toynbee, Arnold, 199
Tragic Era, The, 249
Travels with a Donkey, 26, 78
Treasure Island, 285, 322, 369
Trelawney, Edward John, 169
Truman, Harry S., 207
Turner, Frederick, 199
Twain, Mark, 26, 97, 135, 138
Twist, Oliver, 333
Tyndale, William, 95
"Typhoon," 281
United States News and World Re-
port, 250
Untermeyer, Louis, 258
U. S. A., 297
Valentino, Rudolph, 186
Vanity Fair, 320
Vein of Iron, 322
Victory, 378
Villiers, George, 283
Virgil, 27, 142
Vogue, 251
Voice of the City, The, 82
Watt, The, 379
Watt Street Journal, 251
Wallace, Alfred Russel, 215, 258
Ward, Artemus, 41
Waste Land, The, 305
Waugh, Arthur, 38
Weber, Max, 199
Weir of Hermiston, 158
Wells, H. G., 40, 183, 215, 286, 313
Welty, Eudora, 317, 321, 396
Wharton, Edith, 286, 333
Wheeler, Morton C., 27
When Knighthood Was in Flower,
379
Index of Proper Names 407
Whitman, Walt, 76, 128 Wright, Richard, 138
Wilde, Oscar, 27, 145, 146, 293, 365, Writer, The, 394
373, 374 Writer's Digest, 394
Williams, M. G., 160 Wuthering Heights, 317
Wolfe, Thomas, 128, 279, 311, 313
Woman's Home Companion, 251 Yale Review, 249
Woolf, Virginia, 311, 313, 323 Youth, 323
Woolson, Constance, 286
Wordsworth, William, 218 Zola, fimile, 285
Index of Subjects
Agents, literary, 391, 393
Analogy, 30, 207, 228
Anecdote, 185
Anticipation for suspense, 366
Antithetical structure, 67 f .
Apologies, 88
Argument beside the point, 231; in a
circle, 232
Argumentation, 221 ff.
Arrangement of details in description,
153ff.; of ideas in exposition, 252
Art, definition of, 137
Atmospheric words, 141 ff.
Authority, evidence from, 236 If.; in
exposition, 207 ff ,
Background, creation of, 372 ff.; in
fiction, 317; starting from, 335
Beauty of sound, 107 ff.; of style,
107 ff.
Beginning, the, in exposition, 257; in
fiction, 357, 359, 364 f .
Best-sellers, 396 f .
Biographical novel, 285
Biography, 184 f.
BOOK reviews, see Reviewing
Brevity, 82
Career of writer, 390
Cause-and-effect, fallacies of, 234
Chance in fiction, 270
Change in fiction, 318 ff., 332 ff.
Character of the writer, 291
Characters, creation of, 368; develop-
ing, 315; in fiction, 313, 333; por-
trayal of, 370 ff.; starting a story
from, 338; static, 315; typical, 314
Chekhovian story, 277
Chronological method in exposition,
203
Clarity in exposition, 168; repetition
for, 19
Classification, improper, 232; method
of, 204
See also Division
Climax, order of, 10, 11
Coherence, see Continuity
Coinages, 97
Coincidence in fiction, see Chance
Colored terms, 223
Comedy, 380 ff.
Comparison, 207, 228
Complications in fiction, 325
Compound words, 98
Concreteness, 31, 139 ff.
Conflict in fiction, 321; for interest, 28
Confusion, fallacies of, 231
Consonant-patterns, 116ff.
Consonants, sounds of, 107
Continuity between paragraphs, 53;
of ideas, 52; within paragraphs, 53
Contrast, 22 ff., 207
Control in sentences, 43 ff.
Conversation, see Dialogue
Criticism, 193; and the writer, 392
Deduction, 226; fallacies of, 228
Definition, 205, 230
Description, expository, 189, 204; in
fiction, 265; interpretative, 158;
point of view in, 153 ff,
See also Imagery, Images, Imagi-
nation
Descriptive method in exposition, 204
Details, arrangement of in description,
153; in exposition, 213; familiar,
146; imaginative, 146 ff.; selection
of in description, 152
Dialect, 375
Dialogue, 373 ff.
Diaries, 182 ff.
Diction, fallacies of, 222
See also Words
408
Index of Subjects
409
Division in exposition, 253
Drama, 266 ff.
Egotism and the writer, 289
Emotion, governed, 72; uncontrolled,
71; vigor of, 70
See also Feeling
End, the, importance of, 5 f .
Ending the exposition, 259; the narra-
tive, 346, 357 ff., 362
Essay, familiar, 180 ff.
Events, exposition of, 182 ff .
Evidence, fallacies of, 224 f., 236;
from experience, 237
Examples in exposition, 211 ff.
Experience as evidence, 237; in ex-
position, 169
Exposition, 163ff.; aims of, 246 ff.;
arrangement of ideas in, 252; the
beginning of, 257; definition of,
165; descriptive, 189; of events,
182 ff.; of fact, 189; in fiction,
357 ff.; introduction in, 251 ff.; the
methods of, 203 ff.; of opinion,
191 ff.; of a process, 191; require-
ments of, 167; sources of, 169 ff.;
stratagems in, 256 ff.; subjects for,
246; types of, 180 ff.; uses of, 166
Fact, exposition of, 189
Fallacies of cause-and-effect relation-
ship, 234; of confusion, 231; of de-
duction, 228; of diction, 222; of
evidence, 236; of inclusion, 229; of
induction, 227; of rationalization,
221
Feeling in fiction, 293, 295, 309, 331;
in imaginative writing, 153; and
letter-sounds, llOff.; starting a
story from, 331 ff.
Fiction, background in, 317; change
in, 318 ff.; characters in, 313; com-
posing, 330 ff., 394; complications
in, 325; conflict in, 321; definition
of, 265; delight in, 301; feeling in,
293, 295, 309, 331; imagination in,
265, 294; improbability in, 269; in-
formation in, 318; nature of, 265 ff.;
plot in, 323 ff.; probability in,
268 ff.; quest in, 321; substance of,
309 ff.; surprise in, 271; suspense in,
362 ff.; truth in, 267 ff.; types of,
277 ff.; value of, 396
Figures of speech, 77 ff., 143 ff.
Foreshadowing, 365-366
Hackneyed expressions, 90 f.
Historical novel, 284
History, types of, 183
Humility of the writer, 290
Humor, 29, 379 ff.
Ideas, arrangement of in description,
149; arrangement of in exposition,
252; continuity of, 52; in fiction,
300
Illustration in exposition, 211
Imagery, 76 ff., 137 ff., 146 ff.
Images, kinds of, 138
Imagination in fiction, 265 ff., 294
Imaginative writing, purpose in, 149
See also Details, Figures of
Speech, Imagery, Images, Im-
agination
Improbability in fiction, 268
Incident, starting a story from, 340
Inclusion, fallacies of, 229
Income from writing, 390 f .
Induction, 225; fallacies of, 227
Inference, 224
Information in fiction, 229, 318
Inspiration, 389
Intellectuality, labored, 63; of per-
sonality, 133; true, 65
Intensification, repetition for, 16
Interest, 25 ff.; in exposition, 167
Interpretation in exposition, 210
Introduction in exposition, 251, 257
Jargon, 91 ff.
Journals, 182 ff,, 389 f.
Key-words in the paragraph, 55
Laboriousness of style, 63
Laughter, 380 ff.
Length of novels and stories, 350; of
sentences, 25
Letter-patterns, 113ff.
Letter-sounds, beautiful, 107 ff; feel-
ing and, 110 ff.; ugly, 107 ff.
Manuscript, form of, 394; preparation
of, 382 ff .
410
Index of Subjects
Maupassantian story, the, 277
Motion pictures, writing for, 393
Narrative, obstructed, 320, 333;
straight, 320; of travel, 187; of true
experience, 186
See also Fiction, History, News
Story, Novel
Newspaper work, 390
News story, the, 188
Notebooks, 339
Novel, the, 282 ff.; biographical, 285;
of character, 284; historical, 284;
horizontal, 283; length of, 350; of
locality, 286; naturalistic, 285; pic-
ar^sque, 284; realistic, 286; roman-
tic, 285; of social criticism, 286;
types of, 282, 284 ff.; vertical, 222
Observation in exposition, 170; in fic-
tion writing, 296
Obstruction in narrative, 320, 333
Opinion, exposition of, 191 ff.
Order in the sentence, 50
Paragraph, continuity in, 53; continu-
ity between paragraphs, 53; transi-
tional, 53
Parallel structure, see Repetition
Paraphrase, 208
Passive voice, the, 87 f .
Pattern in consonants, 116ff.; in
sounds, 113 ff.; in style, 72 ff.; in
vowels, 113ff.
Personality, emotional, 135; intellec-
tual, 133; in style, 133 ff.
Persuasion, 254 ff.
Picaresque novel, the, 284
Plot in fiction, 323, 325 ff.
Point of view in description, 153 ff.;
in fiction, 353 ff.
Position, importance of in sentence,
47; the beginning, 47; the end, 5,
47
Preparation in suspense, 366
Probability in fiction, 267 ff.
Process, exposition of, 191
Proportion, principle of, 12 ff.
Provocation in fiction, 342 ff.
Quantities in fiction, 350 ff.
Quest in fiction, 321, 333
Question, ignoring the, 231
Quotation, 208
Rationality in style, 42 ff.
Rationalization, 221 ff.
Reading as source for exposition, 172;
too much, 173
Realistic novel, 286
Reasoning, see Deduction, Induction
Repetition, 16 ff.; for clarity, 19, 20;
in exposition, 214; of ideas, 16, 17,
18, 20 f.; for intensification, 16; of
structure, IT, 18, 21; for unity, 17,
21; of words, 16, 17, 19
See also Pattern, Rhythm
Rhyme in prose, 118
Rhythm, 119ff.
See also Pattern in Style
Romantic novel, the, 285
Satire, 380
Sentences, beginning of, 17; climax in,
10; continuity between, 53; contrast
in, 23; end position in, 6, 47; nor-
mal order in, 50; proportion in, 13;
repetition in, 16 ff.; structure of, 15;
transposition in, 49
Short-story, the, 281
Situation, starting a story from, 340
Sounds, balanced, 121 ff.
See also Consonant-patterns, Con-
sonants, Letter-sounds, Pattern,
Rhythm
Specific examples, 31
Starting a story, 342; from back-
ground, 335; from character, 338;
from feeling, 331; from incident,
340; from situation, 340; from
theme, 334
Story, the, 277 ff.; Chekhovian, 278 ff.;
long, 281; Maupassantian, 277 f.;
short, 280; short short, 282; short-
story, 281
See also Fiction, Narrative
Structure, antithetical, 67 f.; law of,
14, 45; parallel, 17, 56
Style, 42, 352; beauty of, 107 ff.; per-
sonality in, 133 ff.; rationality in,
42 ff.; vigor in, 61 ff.
Subplots, 325
Summary as expository method, 209
Surprise, 8, 271 ff.
Suspense, 7ff.; in fiction, 362 ff.
Syllogism, 228
Symbolism in fiction, 356
Theme in fiction, 331 ff.; starting a
story from, 334 ff.
See also Ideas in fiction
Thought, original in exposition, 173
Titles, 248 ff., 257; in creating sus-
pense, 364; in fiction, 376 ff.
Transition, 53 f .
See also Continuity
Transposition of words, 49
Triteness, 90 f.
Truth in fiction, 267 ff.; historical,
267; poetic, 267
Unfinished terms, fallacy of, 223
Unity, repetition for, 17
Index of Subjects
411
Variety in style, 26
Vigor in style, 61 ff.; emotional, 70;
intellectual, 63; of wording, 82
Vowel-patterns, 113ff.
Vowel-sounds, 107 ff.
Wordiness, 82 ff.
Words, atmospheric, 141; coined, 97;
compounded, 98 f.; concrete, 139 ff.;
fallacies due to misunderstanding
of, 222; hackneyed, 90 ff.; imagina-
tive, 139; key-words, 55 f.; long,
82 f.; new uses of, 100; polysym-
bolic, 140; short, 95; specific, 94;
superfluous, 86 ff.; transitional, 53 f.
Writer, the, 289 ff.; career of, 390;
character of, 291; his education,
292; egotism of, 289; humility of,
290; his state of mind, 292
Writers' groups, 392
Set in Linotype Caledonia
Format by Robert Cheney
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