Style
"How can I acquire a good style of writing?"
Pathetic question, invariably asked by the artless beginner!
You cannot _acquire_ a good style; only a bad style can be acquired.
It is a current impression that style is something apart from, something
foreign to, matter--a beautiful robe which, once it is found, may be used
to clothe the nudity of matter. Young writers wander forth searching for
style, as one searches for that which is hidden. They might employ
themselves as profitably in looking for the noses on their faces. For
style is personal, as much a portion of one's self as the voice. It is
within, not without; it needs only to be elicited, brought to light.
The one possible way of developing the latent style which has always been
yours, is to forget absolutely that such a thing as style exists.
For good style consists in saying exactly what you mean with the utmost
clearness and the utmost naturalness: simply that! When you have
accomplished so much, you have accomplished good style. In no sense is
style of the nature of embroidery, an ornament superimposed: this is what
the beginner fails to grasp; she somehow cannot rid herself of the
superstition that after the meaning is precisely expressed, something
further remains to be done.
I have put clearness and naturalness as the two attributes of good style.
Clearness need not be defined. Naturalness will not suffer definition; it
depends on the individual, and must be determined by the individual. What
is proper for one person may be improper for another. Carlyle was
ungraceful with impunity; Lamb could not have been so. We may no more
choose our styles than our characters. Style, like character, can, it is
true, be trained--strengthened, chastened, refined, rendered shapely; but
in essentials it must for ever remain as it originally was. It is the
expression, not only of the thoughts immediately to be set down, but of
the very man himself, and with the man it will develop. It cannot be
invented; it cannot be concocted. It must be a natural growth--watched,
tended, fostered, pruned, but after all a natural growth.
* * * * *
To find out, to uncover, one's true style; to lay bare one's self: how is
this to be set about? Primarily, by experiment in the way of imitation,
which is the commencement of all art. Every great artist--Shakspere,
Beethoven, Velasquez, Inigo Jones--has started by imitating the models
which he admired and to which he felt drawn. You must do the same. It is
the surest and indeed the only way of arriving at one's true
individuality.
I do not find it easy to recommend exemplars to the aspirant; so many
writers of indubitable greatness have been fatal to their disciples; take
the trite instance of Carlyle, whose influence twenty years ago ruined
styles innumerable. Shakspere and Congreve, possibly our two supreme prose
artists, have styles which, in directness and freedom from mannerism, are
well suited to be models for the young journalist; but since they wrote
only dialogue, now archaic in many details, it is very difficult for the
young journalist to follow them with profit in descriptive work. Among
modern writers, Mrs. Alice Meynell has a style unsurpassed in simplicity,
fineness, and strength. Nevertheless I hesitate to name her as a model,
lest the student, in trying to attain her succinct perfection, should fall
into mere baldness. On the whole, my inclination turns towards Huxley's
_Essays_. Here you have a style which, though by no means great,
possesses every good quality, and has besides no tricks to lead the
beginner astray; nothing more adorably fitted to the uses of newspaper
work could be conceived. To these might be added the letters of Cowper,
and the more popular essays of Matthew Arnold.
Paraphrasing is an excellent practice. Read a passage from the author of
your choice; grasp thoroughly its purport, but do not learn it by heart.
Then close the book, and endeavour to set down in fresh words the thing
you have read. In a few days (not at once) compare your work with the
classic. The comparison will induce humility, and humility is the
beginning of knowledge. After a period of pure imitation you will begin,
at first almost imperceptibly, to diverge into a direction of your own.
Then proceed warily, making the curve very gradual.
Never attempt to pass judgment on your writing before it is a week old.
Until a reasonable interval has elapsed, it is impossible for you to
distinguish between what you had in your mind and what is actually on the
paper; the brain, still occupied with the thought to be expressed,
unconsciously supplies the omissions and clarifies the obscurities of the
written word, which thus seems more satisfactory and convincing than it
really is. With the passage of time, the thought fades, and the written
expression of it, no longer illuminated by memory, must then stand with
you on its intrinsic merits. When thus examining your work, read it aloud:
the process will disclose weaknesses of all sorts not previously
suspected.
Do not destroy anything which you have written. It is well from time to
time to refer to past work. To find that one has progressed is always an
encouragement to further effort.
So far generally.
As this book does not happen to be a guide to style, it is impossible here
to discuss every point likely to arise during the aspirant's self-education
in the art of literary expression. But there are several scarlet sins
against which she must be briefly warned.
The worst of them is the sin of using trite expressions--phrases, figures,
metaphors, and quotations; such as--not to mince the matter, took occasion
to, won golden opinions, the cynosure of all eyes, mental vision, smell of
the lamp, read mark learn and inwardly digest, inclines towards, indulge
in, it is whispered, staple topic of conversation, hit the happy medium,
not wisely but too well, I grieve to say, reign supreme, much in request,
justify its existence, lend itself amiably to, choice galore, call for
remark, hail with delight; and forty thousand others. The work of some
writers is chiefly made up of these hackneyed locutions. Says
Schopenhauer, in an illuminative passage which I cull from his clever but
uneven essay "On Authorship and Style":--"Everyday authors are only half
conscious when they write, a fact which accounts for their want of
intellect and the tediousness of their writings: they do not really
themselves understand the meaning of their own words, because they take
ready-made words and learn them. Hence they combine whole phrases more
than words--_phrases banales_. This accounts for that obviously
characteristic want of clearly defined thought; in fact, they lack the die
that stamps their thoughts, they have no clear thought of their own; and
in place of it we find an indefinite, obscure interweaving of words,
current phrases, worn-out terms of speech, and fashionable expressions.
The result is that their foggy kind of writing is like print that has been
done with old type. On the other hand, intelligent people _really_
speak to us in their writings, and this is why they are able both to move
and to entertain us. It is only intelligent writers who _place
individual words together with a full consciousness of their use,_ and
select them with deliberation."
If you have something to say, instead of accepting the first phrases that
present themselves (which are naturally those you have heard the most
often, and therefore the tritest), endeavour to express yourself in words
of your own individual choice, _selected singly_. When you have put a
sentence together, examine each word separately, and unless it can
satisfactorily account for its position there, by proving appositeness and
either originality or indispensability, then cast it aside. The
conscientious performance of this rite will soon give a wonderful
freshness and piquancy to your style.
Here I must mention a book invaluable to all writers--a book of which I
(as a writer) think so well, that if I might only possess one book and had
to choose between this and a Shakspere, I would let the Shakspere go. I
refer to Roget's _Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases_ (Longman,
10s. 6d.). It is in effect a vast collection of synonyms, divided and
subdivided minutely and with precision. When you lack the _mot
juste_, turn in the index at the end of the volume to any word which,
however distantly, approaches in meaning the one you need but cannot
summon; you will find a reference to a laborious and magnificent group of
allied words amongst which the desired, the unique word is sure to be
discovered. For example, we will suppose you require another word for
"difficulty"; consider this list:--
"Nouns. Difficulty, hardness (and nouns formed from similar adjectives);
impracticability, &c. (see _impossibility_); tough-, hard-, uphill-
work; hard-, herculean-, Augean-task; task of Sisyphus, Sisyphean labour,
tough job, teaser, rasper, dead lift.
"Dilemma, embarrassment; perplexity, &c. (see _uncertainty_);
intricacy; entanglement; cross fire; awkwardness, delicacy, ticklish card
to play, knot, Gordian knot, _dignus vindice nodus_, net, meshes,
maze; coil, &c. (see _convolution_); crooked path.
"Nice-, delicate-, subtle-, knotty point; vexed question, _vexata
quæstio_, poser, puzzle, &c. (see riddle); paradox; hard-, nut to
crack; bone to pick, crux, _pons asinorum_, where the shoe pinches.
"Nonplus, quandary, strait, pass, pinch, pretty pass, stress, brunt;
critical situation, crisis; trial, rub, emergency, exigency, scramble.
"Scrape, hobble, slough, quagmire, hot water, hornet's nest; sea-, peck of
troubles: pretty kettle of fish; pickle, stew, _imbroglio_ mess, ado;
false position; set fast, stand; dead,-lock,-set; fix, horns of a dilemma,
_cul de sac_; hitch; stumbling block, &c. (see _hindrance_)."
The catalogues of allied adjectives and of allied verbs are even longer
than the foregoing.
The Introduction to the _Thesaurus_, by the way, though deserving of
study, is a dull and cumbrous piece of work and not necessary to the
usefulness of the book.
* * * * *
The sin of using trite expressions is equally common among men and women.
There are others which chiefly beset women:--
Undue insistence. I have touched upon this in Chapter II. The remedy is to
use superlatives only under compulsion, and to eschew italics and such
adverbs as "absolutely," "utterly," "positively."
Wordiness. When you have written a paragraph, examine it carefully with
the object of eliminating every word which is not necessary to the
expression of the meaning. Be sure that you have not said the same thing
twice in different words. Keep watch especially against pleonasms. Let
this be your motto: Brevity without baldness.
Undue use of metaphor, simile, and figure. This is a sin to which women
are wofully prone. They commit it with glee, and I have often found it a
most difficult matter to make them realise the absurdities which result
from the practice of it. As an illustration of the ludicrous consequences
of unbridled indulgence in metaphor and simile, I quote the following
extract (not, however, the work of a woman) from a serious and justly
respected newspaper.
"I have gasped in wonder to witness one of Her Majesty's judges forsake--on
very insufficient provocation--the gossamer of recreative conversation,
to upraise a few monumental, I may say memorable, judgments on the subject
of lithography. Now, there are many red rags in the various arts with
which to encompass the discomfiture of the Philistine's bull, and the
raven will always appropriate the feathers of the peacock and look
ridiculous in them; but the rapier enwreathed in the red rag of painting
is more readily rushed upon, and plumes of appreciation more wantonly
borrowed and grotesquely worn in this walk of art than in any other."
Shun especially mixed metaphors. [Footnote: The most beautiful instance of
mixed metaphor I have ever seen occurred in a solicitor's letter, brought
to my notice by the clerk to whom it was dictated. It ran thus:--"We go
upon the principle that, in order to pull the matter out of the fire, a
fourth of a fifth of a loaf is better than no bread, which the terms
proposed are."] See the section on figurative language (p. 76) in Nichols'
_English Composition_. But do not take Nichols himself as a model; I
find him writing thus:--"Avoid an accumulation of little words. The
_luggage_ of particles is an _impediment_ to strong speech and a
_jar_ in the harmony of style," which is nearly as funny as the funny
examples which he quotes.