"As well as" follows the same general rules as "rather than." "He directs the statistics branch as well as advises [not advising] the new employees."

6. Unannounced "and which" constructions

The phrase "and which" demands a previous "which" construction as its parallel companion. We cannot correctly say, "The second question in this case, much more important and much more difficult to decide, and which we had previously met to discuss, may now be bypassed." This construction often signals a sentence which is trying to say too much. There are probably two full statements here. "The second question which we met to discuss is much more important and more difficult to decide. Now, however, it may be bypassed.'

The same principle applies to "but which" clauses. "It is a group established only 3 months, but which has already done much to justify our confidence in it." Such a construction may be corrected by repeating the subject or by using a pronoun in place of it: ("... but it had . . ."). To avoid falling into the error, we should check every coordinating conjunction which appears before "who" or "which" to make sure that there is a preceding who- or which-clause.

The Rhetorical Effect of Parallelism

Structurally and logically, parallelism groups ideas which belong together and displays their unity and relevance. Elaborate parallelism, however, is not appropriate to expository writing. Lincoln did well to pack his short address at Gettysburg with parallelism, but the same quality which makes that speech memorable might make ordinary prose objectionably artificial. "But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground The world will

little note nor long remember what we say here; but it can never forget what they did here." Simple, natural parallelism, however, is always beneficial, and against such there is no law. "Too little too late" did yeoman service during World War II, and continues to come out of retirement occasionally. And how simple and pleasant is this little line from a worthy of the 17th century who had just suffered through an overlong sermon: "It is a wonder to me how men can preach so little and so long, so long a time and so little matter." (Actually, this is a refined form of parallelism called "chiasmus," in which the order of the first element is inverted in the second, "so little . . . so long, so long SO little ...")

Two elementary considerations determine the order in which parallel elements should be expressed: logic and rhetorical effect. If the elements involve a logical progression or a time sequence ("The suggestion will be carefully studied by the supervisor, by the local committee, and finally by the Director himself") or a sequence of climactic development ("His statements show him to be inexact, careless, and perhaps even untruthful"), these considerations will determine their order. Apart from these two overruling conditions, sentence smoothness will help decide the issue. As a general rule, the longest of a series of parallel units should come last. "I am not sure where we can get the space, the instructors, or any of the essential training aids." A sharp, short final element can be used for emphasis or irony: "From his own explanation of his job, it is not clear whether he should be put in charge of a research project, made the chief editor of the section, or fired."

But apart from making some comment on the nature and structure of parallelism, we can be of only slight help to the writer. Everyone must experiment for himself and decide where and how to use it. Beyond the matter of mere correctness, parallelism is a stylistic device, and it expresses our personality as much as it does our craftsmanship. It must not be permitted to defeat itself by being overused. "He that speaks must not look to speak thus every day," wrote Owen Felltham in 1628. And the same worthy also notes: "A combed writing will cost both sweat and the rubbing of the brain. And combed I wish it, not frizzled nor curled."

Linkage-Its Central Role

VERY READER who picks up a piece of writing is starting out on a journey. Unlike most travelers, however, he is entirely dependent on someone else to tell him why he is going, where he is going, and how he is going to get there. These things only the writer knows, and as likely as not he's not talking. If he is an average, nonprofessional writer, that is. But if he has ever had to make his living by putting one word after another on a piece of paper, he knows that it is helpful to make his writing correct, gratifying to make it stylistically pleasing, profitable to make it interesting, but absolutely mandatory to make it clear and sequential. He knows that of all the timid creatures of the deep forest, the reader is the timidest, the most likely to sniff the bait from about a hundred yards away and then disappear. If the bait (the first sentence) is not outstandingly toothsome, if the next little bite is not hooked to it, and the next to that, and so on until the doors of the trap (the conclusion) snap shut on the furry little creature (the Government reader, of course), the hunter may as well give up hunting and become a supervisor or a top administrator. Best of all, he can become a teacher of writing.

To return to the metaphor of the journey, we may say that each sentence is a step on a long and twisting path. The reader can see no more than the next two or three words in front of him. If he is supposed to change directions, or to pause for a brief recapitulation, or to continue boldly and rapidly ahead, or to back up for a second glance at terrain already covered from another direction, he must be told to do so. If the pathway is going to be rough, or poorly defined, or roundabout, he must be warned beforehand. If there are going to be a few views of particular significance or beauty, he must be made to anticipate them. And above all, the guide must not shove off into the next stage of the journey without telling the reader; readers must not be left to wander about on their own.

All this may seem somewhat remote and farfetched, but actually one of the most real and acute responsibilities of the writer, and one of the most frequently ignored, is to write a sequence of sentences, not a mere collection of them. The reader needs a structure, not a load of supplies for making one. If individual sentences are not built so that they form a

logical structure within themselves, if they are not put end to end so as to show clear progression, and if they are not put into paragraph units which reveal movement toward a conclusion, all other efforts to make writing effective will fail.

It is too obvious to be useful to say that a hundred clear sentences scrambled at random add up to chaos, but what is not so obvious is that, even when sentences are laid out in a logical sequence, that sequence will not be apparent unless they are linked, with words, clearly and tightly. We often forget the speed of the reading process. We sit and think as we write, and slowly and painfully the sentences appear. The logical relationships between them are so obvious to us that we think that no one above the cretin level can miss them. But the reader's eye moves in a fine frenzy, hitting only a few high spots on the page. If the links, the "road markers," are not present in eye-catching vividness and needful clarity, all the writer's painful thought and concentration will be wasted.

But, say some, in expository Government writing we are not competing for readers. We are not responsible for pleasing the reader, only for informing him. We have, as it were, a captive audience; and our salaries will not vanish if some of our readers sweat and curse a bit. Most of us have written in this environment for some years now and have often failed to receive that appreciation which is so obviously our due, but not, we believe, for failure to hook the back end of one sentence into the front end of the next.

Several points in this complaint (which, in one form or another, I have heard dozens of times from Government employees) are quite true. We do have a captive audience, in a sense. If the branch office in Minneapolis wants to know what we have to tell them, they jolly well have got to read our writing and do the best with it they can. If the citizen inquirer wants to know whether he can list money spent to support his mother-in-law under "disasters and acts of God," he must work his way through our reply, willy-nilly. True; but readers have their own defense systems. The Government employee is forced, indeed, to read reams of paper every week, but he quickly learns how to switch his consciousness to the "off" position and turn his reading into an exercise of the eye muscles. The result is inefficiency. The citizen reader, for his part, takes his frustration out in anger against the Government. The result is bad public relations. Both of these consequences are major targets in our writing course. No writing can claim to be effective which ignores either one.