Even before man set a candle in front of a curved mirror and through a lens cast a beam of light into the storm, we have steered our lives by guides—guides which appear throughout history in many forms: in constellations or the rising sun, in massive blocks of stone or rounded bits of metal. Ultimately, in marks chiseled on tablets or scrawled on palimpsests and paper. With guides, we point the way; we expand our horizons.
Words are guides as well, but guides to ideas. Using words, we explore and expand ideas, then point the way for others to follow and ponder. Through words, we catch a fragment of immortality. And maybe this is the problem.
It's as if we fear to be known for what we think; as if a clearly defined stand is the original sin. We direct attention away from, or even cloak from all but a privileged few, those ideas we must communicate.
Just when did we become so mealy-mouthed, hm?
A disproportionate percentage of our modern language avoids taking a stand. The guide for today's social communications—in particular, political or business communications—dodges the main purpose of writing: presenting ideas clearly. Political and business writers no longer take responsibility for their thoughts. They obscure with passive voice; they hide behind the Medusa of diversity and multiculturalism; even more ominously, they breed politically correct terminology. This diseased language becomes a holy cause, which is in turn studied religiously in our academic institutions, and then like a virus, it spreads throughout our language.
I'm here to tell you: as vocabulary becomes regulated, ideas are the victim.
Let me be very clear here. There is considerable difference between being aware of and sensitive to diversity, and being crippled by it. I am not advocating the retention and use of derogatory epithets or racially- and religiously-motivated monikers; those are as guilty of stemming ideas as the politically correct terminology that ostensibly corrects the problem. What I am advocating is clarity; that we consider our ideas carefully, then write them clearly.
We control the perceptions of others through the language we choose. However, when language lacks depth, ideas are sacrificed in the shallows. Through politically correct terminology, we default to language that is so sensitive to ethnicity, culture, religion, gender, age, politics, life experiences, impairments and handicaps, that we can no longer communicate for fear of offending. We are so terrorized by this idea that we abdicate to others our responsibility to think and speak our minds.
After all, if you don't take a stand, you are not liable.
Not even for your convictions.
28 September 2007
16 September 2007
The Lives of a Well-Written Essay
There is something indescribably delicious about a well-written essay—not only as a snapshot of the author's era, but if truly well written, as a portrait of the foibles or strengths or absurdities of all eras. Essays call into question our assumptions about ourselves, rising above writing that is purely anecdotal, and often reveling in a subtle humor, as if the author were inviting you—the discerning reader—to view the world through his peculiar frame. That, of course, is the crux of a well-written essay: while the author speaks originally of his own times and perceptions, ultimately he speaks of ours, whether that be fifty or a thousand years later. The essayist dips into that mysterious ectoplasm called the human condition and emerges with ideas that drip through his fingers onto the page.
Well-written essays have many lives: historians value essays for the immersion into the then-current politics and legal wrangles; psychologists for the glimpse of the inner workings of one person's mind; sociologists, the entrance into the social complexities and conventions—even maladaptations—of a time not their own; and the general public, for inquiry and enlightenment, for laughter and tears. To feel.
In the preoccupation of one, we find the preoccupation of everyone.
Take Joan Didion's essay, "Holy Water," in which she evokes the pulse of a dry, arid area that relies heavily upon aqueducts and valves to provide life. In a few, well-chosen sentences, she not only pens her obsession with water, but draws us into the flow and intensity of the water itself:
"The water I will draw tomorrow from my tap in Malibu is today crossing the Mojave Desert from the Colorado River, and I like to think about exactly where that water is. The water I will drink tonight in a restaurant in Hollywood is by now well down the Los Angeles Aqueduct from the Owens River, and I also think about exactly where that water is: I particularly like to imagine it as it cascades down ..."
Through her language—her frame, as it were—her obsession becomes ours. For that oh-so-brief moment, we live in her world, and by doing so, we understand a bit more about our own, whether we live in a land of plenty or a land of deprivation. [Didion, Joan. "Holy Water," The White Album. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1979.]
On the other hand, we can look to George Orwell, one of the pre-eminent essayists of the twentieth century, for the pressures of society. His experience as a British police officer in Burma could have been purely anecdotal, but instead he delved deeply into his experience and emerged with a horrendous understanding of the expense extracted when cultures clash and expectations require action. His 1936 essay, "Shooting an Elephant," describes an incident where the local authorities—those who spat on him, denigrated him as he passed, tripped him on the football field—suddenly needed him to 'take care of' a ravaging elephant. Orwell's investigation took him to a field on the outskirts of the village, where the elephant —its hormonal rampage expended—was peaceably eating. Left alone, the elephant, the most valuable asset of its sahib, would meander back to its home. However, the entire village had followed Orwell in the anticipation of his shooting this elephant. Orwell says:
"And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys....I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle....To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was impossible...."
Orwell goes on to describe the shooting in terms as simple as they are gruesome. But the last line of his essay is pure sociology:
"...it put me legally in the right and it gave me sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool."
In Orwell's willingness to expose his weakness, we are able to acknowledge it in ourselves. [Orwell, George. "Shooting an Elephant." A Collection of Essays. San Diego; New York; London: Harcourt, Inc. 1981.]
For an understanding of the historical significance of an essay, turn to Virginia Woolf, whose work, "The Elizabethan Lumber Room," is strewn with tidbits that are rich in historical texture.
"....For this jumble of seeds, silks, unicorns' horns, elephants' teeth, wool, common stones, turbans, and bars of gold, these odds and ends of priceless value and complete worthlessness, were the fruit of innumerable voyages, traffics, and discoveries to unknown lands in the reign of Queen Elizabeth....There in the river by Greenwich the fleet lay gathered, close to the Palace. 'The Privy council looked out of the windows of the court...the ships thereupon discharge their ordnance...and the mariners they shouted in such sort the the sky rang again with the noise thereof.' Then, as the ships swung down the tide, one sailor after another walked the hatches, climbed the shrouds, stood upon the mainyards to wave his friends a last farewell. Many would come back no more....
In her frame, Woolf has created a sense of history that brings it down to the personal level; it becomes more than a simple anecdote of an attic strewn with valuables of complete worthlessness, the sailor climbing the shrouds, or those who would come back no more. We feel this history, we sense the energy, the bouyancy, and the regrets.
The well-written essay does indeed live many lives, does indeed delve deep past cheap anecdotes and personal notes. Most importantly, it brings a sense of continuity to its readers.
Note: For the purposes of clarity and readability, this essay uses the male pronouns, he/him/his, rather than the gender-encompassing-but-literary-sludge of "he or she," "his or hers," or 'him or her." Next week's essay, "Politically Correct is a Dangerous Leitmotif," will address language and the fear of commitment..
Well-written essays have many lives: historians value essays for the immersion into the then-current politics and legal wrangles; psychologists for the glimpse of the inner workings of one person's mind; sociologists, the entrance into the social complexities and conventions—even maladaptations—of a time not their own; and the general public, for inquiry and enlightenment, for laughter and tears. To feel.
In the preoccupation of one, we find the preoccupation of everyone.
Take Joan Didion's essay, "Holy Water," in which she evokes the pulse of a dry, arid area that relies heavily upon aqueducts and valves to provide life. In a few, well-chosen sentences, she not only pens her obsession with water, but draws us into the flow and intensity of the water itself:
"The water I will draw tomorrow from my tap in Malibu is today crossing the Mojave Desert from the Colorado River, and I like to think about exactly where that water is. The water I will drink tonight in a restaurant in Hollywood is by now well down the Los Angeles Aqueduct from the Owens River, and I also think about exactly where that water is: I particularly like to imagine it as it cascades down ..."
Through her language—her frame, as it were—her obsession becomes ours. For that oh-so-brief moment, we live in her world, and by doing so, we understand a bit more about our own, whether we live in a land of plenty or a land of deprivation. [Didion, Joan. "Holy Water," The White Album. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1979.]
On the other hand, we can look to George Orwell, one of the pre-eminent essayists of the twentieth century, for the pressures of society. His experience as a British police officer in Burma could have been purely anecdotal, but instead he delved deeply into his experience and emerged with a horrendous understanding of the expense extracted when cultures clash and expectations require action. His 1936 essay, "Shooting an Elephant," describes an incident where the local authorities—those who spat on him, denigrated him as he passed, tripped him on the football field—suddenly needed him to 'take care of' a ravaging elephant. Orwell's investigation took him to a field on the outskirts of the village, where the elephant —its hormonal rampage expended—was peaceably eating. Left alone, the elephant, the most valuable asset of its sahib, would meander back to its home. However, the entire village had followed Orwell in the anticipation of his shooting this elephant. Orwell says:
"And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys....I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle....To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was impossible...."
Orwell goes on to describe the shooting in terms as simple as they are gruesome. But the last line of his essay is pure sociology:
"...it put me legally in the right and it gave me sufficient pretext for shooting the elephant. I often wondered whether any of the others grasped that I had done it solely to avoid looking a fool."
In Orwell's willingness to expose his weakness, we are able to acknowledge it in ourselves. [Orwell, George. "Shooting an Elephant." A Collection of Essays. San Diego; New York; London: Harcourt, Inc. 1981.]
For an understanding of the historical significance of an essay, turn to Virginia Woolf, whose work, "The Elizabethan Lumber Room," is strewn with tidbits that are rich in historical texture.
"....For this jumble of seeds, silks, unicorns' horns, elephants' teeth, wool, common stones, turbans, and bars of gold, these odds and ends of priceless value and complete worthlessness, were the fruit of innumerable voyages, traffics, and discoveries to unknown lands in the reign of Queen Elizabeth....There in the river by Greenwich the fleet lay gathered, close to the Palace. 'The Privy council looked out of the windows of the court...the ships thereupon discharge their ordnance...and the mariners they shouted in such sort the the sky rang again with the noise thereof.' Then, as the ships swung down the tide, one sailor after another walked the hatches, climbed the shrouds, stood upon the mainyards to wave his friends a last farewell. Many would come back no more....
In her frame, Woolf has created a sense of history that brings it down to the personal level; it becomes more than a simple anecdote of an attic strewn with valuables of complete worthlessness, the sailor climbing the shrouds, or those who would come back no more. We feel this history, we sense the energy, the bouyancy, and the regrets.
The well-written essay does indeed live many lives, does indeed delve deep past cheap anecdotes and personal notes. Most importantly, it brings a sense of continuity to its readers.
Note: For the purposes of clarity and readability, this essay uses the male pronouns, he/him/his, rather than the gender-encompassing-but-literary-sludge of "he or she," "his or hers," or 'him or her." Next week's essay, "Politically Correct is a Dangerous Leitmotif," will address language and the fear of commitment..
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