CHAPTER I

EXPOSITORY WRITING

BY

MERVIN JAMES CURL

FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS

[Illustration: Publisher's Device]

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY MERVIN JAMES CURL

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

U. S. A.

TO

THE STUDENTS IN RHETORIC III

AT THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS

WITH WHOM I HAD PLEASANT ASSOCIATION

FROM 1914 TO 1918

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Since one of the pleasures of life is in being indebted to friends

for kindnesses so generously given that the givers were unaware of

the indebtedness which they were creating, the author is happy to set

forth several acknowledgments of most helpful counsel and aid. To Dr.

Emerson G. Sutcliffe, with whom a complete text on the whole subject of

rhetoric had been projected, only to be set aside, and to result, for

the present, in the text now published, the author wishes to express

his thanks for advice, criticism, and general wise help throughout the

preparation of this text. Dr. Herbert L. Creek read many sections of the

book in manuscript, and made valuable suggestions. At the suggestion of

Dr. Jacob Zeitlin the chapter on the "Informal Essay" was rewritten,

with much improvement. Helpful advice was given concerning different

sections of the book by Dr. Frank W. Scott, Dr. Harold N. Hillebrand,

Dr. Clarissa Rinaker, and Miss Ruth Kelso. Dr. Robert C. Whitford and

Mr. Bruce Weirick read a part of the book and kindly commented upon it.

All these kind friends were members, at the time of giving aid, of the

faculty of the University of Illinois.

To Professor Fred L. Pattee, of the Pennsylvania State College, the

author feels an especial debt of gratitude for unfailing interest and

cheer and much wise counsel.

To Mr. Warner G. Rice, a student in the University of Illinois, the

author wishes to make acknowledgment for reading one chapter in

manuscript and making valuable suggestions.

So many friends have helped at one time and another that whatever of

good the book may contain is doubtless due largely to them. For its

faults the author alone is responsible.

Due credit is made in the proper places to the several publishers who

with unfailing kindness and courtesy allowed the use of material drawn

from their publications.

_Boston, Massachusetts_

_August 9, 1919_

CONTENTS

I. THE NATURE AND MATERIAL OF EXPOSITION 1

II. HOW TO WRITE EXPOSITION 11

III. DEFINITION 73

IV. ANALYSIS 113

V. MECHANISMS, PROCESSES, AND ORGANIZATIONS 157

VI. CRITICISM 190

VII. THE INFORMAL ESSAY 231

VIII. EXPOSITORY BIOGRAPHY 257

IX. THE GATHERING OF MATERIAL FOR WRITING 297

INDEX 305

EXPOSITORY WRITING

CHAPTER I

THE NATURE AND MATERIAL OF EXPOSITION

"The Anglo-Saxons," Emerson said, "are the hands of the world"--they,

more than any other people, turn the wheels of the world, do its work,

keep things moving. Without lingering to quarrel with Emerson, or

to justify him, we may safely assert that Expository Writing is the

hands of literature. In a world which man even as yet only slightly

understands, surrounded as he is by his fellows who constantly baffle

his intelligence, and shut up within the riddle of himself, Exposition

attempts to explain, to make clear, to tear away the clouds of mystery

and ignorance.

Exposition attempts to answer the endless curiosity of man. "What is

this?" man asks, of things and of ideas. "Who are you?" he addresses to

his fellows. "How did this originate, what caused it, where is it going,

what will it do, how is it operated?" he repeats from birth to grave.

Perhaps the most interesting question in the world is the never-ending

"What does this mean to me, how does it affect me, how can I use it?"

These are the questions--and there are more of them--which Exposition

tries to answer. Obviously, in making the answers the writing will

often be garbed in the sack suit of business, will sometimes roll up

its sleeves, will pull on the overalls or tie the apron. Then it may

explain the workings of a machine, the wonders of a printing press, or

may show the mysteries of Congressional action, or the organization

of a department store, or even tell how to bake a lemon pie. But it

may also appear in the opulence of evening costume, and criticize the

ensemble of an orchestra, discuss the diplomacy of Europe, address us

in appreciation of the Arts. It may assume the fine informality of the

fireside and give us of its most delightful charms in discussing the

joys of living and learning, the whimsicalities of the world. In any

case it will be answering the endless curiosity of man.

It would not be rash to say that more expository thinking is done than

any other kind of mental activity. The child who dismantles a clock to

find its secret is doing expository thinking; the official, of however

complicated a business, who ponders ways and means, is trying to satisfy

his business curiosity; the artist who studies the effect of balance, of

light and shade, of exclusion or inclusion, is thinking in exposition;

politicians are ceaselessly active in explaining to themselves how

they may, and to their constituents how they did. We cannot escape

Exposition. The question then arises, since this form of writing is

always with us how can we make it effective and enjoyable?

All writing should be interesting; all really effective writing does

interest. It may not be required that every reader be interested in

every bit of writing--that would be too much to hope for in a world

where sympathies are unfortunately so restricted. To peruse a directory

of Bangkok, if one has no possible acquaintance in that city, might

become tedious, though one might draw pleasure from the queer names and

the suggestions of romance. But if one has a lost friend somewhere in

New York, and hopes that the directory will achieve discovery, the bulky

and endless volume immediately takes on the greatest interest. Lincoln,

driven at length to write a recommendation for a book, to escape the

importunities of an agent, wisely, whimsically, wrote, "This is just the

right kind of book for any one who desires just this kind of book." Wide

though his sympathies were, he recognized that not every one enjoys

everything. The problem of the writer of exposition is to make as wide

an appeal as he can.

Interest in reading is of two kinds: satisfaction and stimulation. And

each of these may be either intellectual or emotional or both. The

interest of satisfaction largely arises when the questions which the

reader brings with him to his reading are answered. A reader who desires

to know what is done with the by-products in a creamery, where the skim

milk goes to, will be satisfied--and interested--when he learns the

complete list of uses, among them the fact that skim milk is largely

made into the white buttons that make our underclothing habitable.

The reader who leaves an article about these by-products with the

feeling that he has been only half told is sure to be dissatisfied,

and therefore uninterested. In the same way, when a reader picks up an

article or a book with the desire to be thrilled with romance or wonder,

to be taken for the time away from the business of the world, to be

wrenched with pity for suffering or with admiration for achievement--in

other words, when a reader brings a hungry emotion to his reading--if he

finds satisfaction, he is interested.

The interest of stimulation may include that of satisfaction, but

not necessarily. It is the interest that drives a person to further

thinking or acting for himself, that loosens his own energies and makes

him aware of desire for satisfaction that he did not know he had. A

reader may, for example, peruse an editorial in a daily paper and find

a complete array of facts, setting forth in detail the subject, and may

be satisfied about the subject. He may read another editorial which will

not leave him cold, indifferent, but will set his brain to churning with

ideas, or may even make him clap on his hat and start forth to change

things in the world. The second editorial has given him the interest of

stimulation.

Writing that makes the interest of stimulation is the writing of power:

to the mere satisfaction of hunger, such as one can get from eating

dry oatmeal, it adds the stimulation, the joy in life that a fragrant

cup of coffee would add to the oatmeal. Exposition that satisfies is

adequate; that which stimulates is powerful. Obviously, some expository

writing would suffer from being filled with the power to rouse the

reader. Much legal writing must be addressed to the intellect alone;

often the entrance of stimulation, the rousing of the emotions, will

destroy the chance for justice. Obviously, again, some subjects can be

treated to contain both kinds of interest: an account of the devastation

of northern France may be as cold as a ledger in its array of facts

which are to be added; it may also be so treated as to rouse a vitriolic

hatred for the government that caused such devastation to be made.

Each treatment is allowable, and each necessary for a perfectly proper

purpose.

Let us admit, without debate, that much expository writing is stupid.

Why is it thus? Largely for two reasons: the writer has not made his

material mean anything to himself, and he has not made it significant

for his reader. In writing exposition there is no place for him who

draws his pen along like a quarry slave who is soon to be scourged

to his dungeon and does not care for anything. A person who finds no

interest in his subject should do one of two things: consult a physician

to see if his health is normal so that he may expect reasonably vivid

reactions to life and things; or choose a new subject. Interest, in

other words, enters at the moment when the writing becomes related

vitally to human beings, and not until that moment. Why do students

enjoy reading the writings of William James? Simply because the author

made his facts relate to himself and to everybody else. If a writer

feels like saying, "I don't see anything interesting in this!" and

yet he feels duty pointing a stern finger at composition, he should

examine the subject more nearly, should see if it does not in some way

affect him, does not present a front that he is really concerned with.

Suppose, for example, that the task presents itself of accounting for

the use of skim milk, and suppose that the writer thinks skim milk of

all things the stupidest. Well, buttons, they say, are made from it--but

who cares what buttons are made from; their purpose is to hold clothes

together, and that's all! But wait a bit: here are some hundreds of

gallons of skim milk, from which thousands of buttons can be made.

Without the milk, the buttons will be cut from shells, perhaps, at a

much larger cost. Ah, the pocketbook is affected, is it--well, let's

have the milk used, then. And when one stops to think of it, is it not

remarkable that from a soft thing like milk a hard thing like a button

should be made? Isn't man, after all, rather ingenious? Who in the world

ever thought of milk buttons? Some such process the mind often passes

through in its approach to a subject. At length it finds interest, and

then it can write--and not before.

Here is the difference, then, between being a dumb beast of a reporter

of facts, and a free agent of an interpreter. Some facts, to be sure,

are in themselves so startling that mere report is sufficient. Slight

comment is needed to horrify an audience at Turkish atrocities in

the war. Perhaps comment would even weaken the effect. The terrible

poignancy of such facts so fires the imagination that more is perhaps

positively harmful. Many facts are not thus immediately translated into

human experience. At first thought the fact that a new hotel will be

supplied with indirect lighting seems a mere fact of trade: instead

of ordering hanging chandeliers of one kind, the builder will order

another kind. But thought of more fully, this fact takes on both the

interest of satisfaction and that of stimulation: why did the builder

decide to install the indirect system? and what will the effect be?

Imagining one's self in that hotel at the end of a long and bewildering

journey, with nerves on edge and eyes aflame with dust, will relate the

fact of choice at once to human feelings and needs--and the subject

is interesting. A reader can be made to understand the workings of the

engine in a super-six automobile, and also to feel the power of it; to

understand a cream separator and also to thrill to the economy of time

and strength which it brings; to understand a clarinet and also to rouse

to the beauty of its voice; to understand an adding machine and also to

marvel at the uncanny weirdness of the invention. The writer interprets

as soon as he brings his subject into relation with human life and shows

its real value.

As already mentioned, care is to be exercised to use the treatment

which the subject demands. An explanation, for practical purposes, of

a machine lathe will be dangerous if it attempts too much imaginative

stimulation: there would lurk too great a danger to material fingers. An

essay, on the other hand, such as those of Lamb and Stevenson, depends

largely on its imaginative interpretation, on its appeal to the interest

of stimulation. For a neutral newspaper account of a football game the

following heading was used: "Yesterday's game between the University of

Illinois and the University of Chicago resulted in no score for either

side." That is a bald report of the facts, for a neutral audience. The

interpreting spirit, as it appeared at the two universities, colored

the tale: "Fighting Illini tie Maroons 0-0"; and, "Maroons hold Illini

to 0-0 score." These two headings, if expanded into complete articles,

would color the story with interpretation for a specific audience that

is vitally interested. The accounts would probably be more interesting

than that of the newspaper, but they would also run the chance of being

less fair.

For Webster's New International Dictionary _art_ is defined as follows:

"Application of skill and taste to production according to æsthetic

principles; an occupation having to do with the theory or practice of

taste in the expression of beauty in form, color, sound, speech, or

movement." George Gissing, making a definition of the same subject for

his book, _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_, writes as follows:

It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an

expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest for life. This

is applicable to every form of Art devised by man, for, in his

creative moment, whether he produce a great drama or carve a piece

of foliage in wood, the artist is moved and inspired by supreme

enjoyment of some aspect of the world about him; an enjoyment

keener in itself than that experienced by another man, and

intensified, prolonged, by the power--which comes to him we know

not how--of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of

rare vitality. Art, in some degree, is within the scope of every

human being, were he but the ploughman who utters a few would-be

melodious notes, the mere outcome of health and strength, in the

field at sunrise; he sings or tries to, prompted by an unusual

gusto in being, and the rude stave is all his own. Another was he,

who also at the plough, sang of the daisy, or the field mouse,

or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam o' Shanter. Not only had life

a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than that which

stirs the soul of Hodge, but he uttered it in word and music such

as go to the heart of mankind, and hold a magic power for ages.[1]

[1] George Gissing: _The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft_. By

permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co., New York City.

Of these two definitions obviously the first attempts merely to satisfy

the intellectual curiosity of the reader, is a mere report of facts, and

the second is interested in making an interpretation, in stimulating the

reader. For most readers the words of Gissing would be more interesting;

though, since a dictionary is not primarily an amusement, it is a bit

unfair to mention the fact.

Interesting our expository writing must be; it must also be truthful.

Nothing worse can be imagined than the kind of writing that forgets the

facts, that remembers only the desire to please. Under the pleasing

phraseology of any bit of expository writing there must be the firm

structure of thought, and the close weave of fact. Expository writing

is commonly divided into Definition and Analysis. Definition attempts

to set bounds to the subject, to say "thus far and no farther," to tell

what the subject is. Analysis regards the subject as composed of parts,

mutually related, which together form the whole, and attempts to divide

the subject into as many parts as it contains. Analysis is divided into

classification and partition. Classification groups individual members

according to likeness, as one might classify Americans according to

color or birthplace or education or health, in every case placing those

who are alike together. Partition divides an organic whole into its

parts, as one might divide the United States Government into its three

branches of legislative, judicial, and executive, or the character of

George Washington into its components. Now definition and analysis often

intermingle and help each other, and are often informally treated,

but somehow, in every piece of exposition, the underlying thought

must have a sound basis of one or the other or both. This will be the

nucleus of the thinking; it may then be treated as a bald report or

as an interpretation, aiming merely to give information or to rouse

the further interest of the reader. The method of treatment will be

determined by the nature of the facts and the purpose of the author in

writing.

It cannot be too strongly stated that the underlying thought and the

interest are really one, after all. As you approach a subject, and

learn its character and meaning, you will be at the same time learning

whether it is a subject capable of great appeal or only of slight

attraction. Interest is not something laid on, but is a development from

the nature of the facts themselves. The first question should be, "Is

this interesting?" and then the second question may follow, "How shall I

bring out the interest?" Remember that interest depends on relation to

human beings; the closer the relation, the greater the interest.

Mr. Henry Labouchere, English statesman and for many years editor of

_Truth_, had an ideal reaction to life, so far as interest is concerned.

If, scanning the horizon for interest, he had bethought himself of the

rather impolite advice of the Muse to Sir Philip Sidney, "'Fool,' said

my Muse to me, 'look in thine heart and write,'" he would have found,

upon following the advice, a heart full of eager curiosity and readiness

to be attracted to anything. The following account of one of his

qualities, as related in his biography, is worth remembering when you

feel like saying, "Oh, I don't see anything interesting in that!": "If

he had encountered a burglar in his house already loaded with valuables,

his first impulse would have been, not to call the police, but to engage

the intruder in conversation, and to learn from him something of the

habits of burglars, the latest and most scientific methods of burgling,

the average profits of the business, and so forth. He would have been

delighted to assist his new acquaintance with suggestions for his future

guidance in his profession, and to point out to him how he might have

avoided the mistake which had on this occasion led to his being caught

in the act. In all this he would not by any means have lost sight of his

property; on the contrary, the whole force of his intellect would have

been surreptitiously occupied with the problem of recovering it with

the least amount of inconvenience to his friend and himself. He would

have maneuvered to bring off a deal. If by sweet reasonableness he could

have persuaded the burglar to give up the 'swag,' he would have been

delighted to hand him a sovereign or two, cheer him with refreshment,

shake hands, and wish him better luck next time; and he would have

related the whole story in the next week's _Truth_ with infinite humor

and profound satisfaction."

To make clear, to explain,--that is the task of exposition. Such

writing does not have the excitement of the fighting-ring, which we

find in argument, nor does it attain the lyric quality of impassioned

description, or the keen wild flight of narrative. It keeps its feet on

the earth, tells the truth--but tells it in such a way, with so much

of reaction on the writer's part, and with so strong an appeal to the

reader's curiosity or imagination or sympathy, that it is interesting,

that it is always adequate, and may be powerful.