3. Identifying the basis of the topic statement

When we finish reading the beginning of expository writing, we should know what it is about, what it concludes, and what basis the writer has for reaching the conclusion. The middle of the report or letter will, of course, give in detail the basis for the conclusion, but the reader should be told at once the nature of the supporting evidence. It may be suggested in a phrase or in a paragraph, according to the subject and the length of the writing. Here, for example, is a sample rundown on all three of the points made so far:

1. "Would the efficiency of section X be increased by the application of the Work Progress Measurement Program?" (Subject area.) 2. "The conclusion of this report is that it would." (Topic statement.)

3. "This conclusion is based on a 3-month study of section X activities and on a questionnaire sent to all supervisors." (Basis for the topic statement.)

All of this could be said in a single sentence: "From a 3-month study of section X activities and from a questionnaire sent to all supervisors, it would appear that the efficiency of that section would be improved by the application of the Work Progress Measurement Program." The reader now has the heart of the entire report. He can read on if it interests him and falls within his authority, or, if not, he can confidently put it aside, sure that he is not missing something he should know.

If the report is long, each of the three reader needs may take a full paragraph for explicit statement. Normally, however, and surely in most letters, the whole matter can be taken care of in one or two sentences. The important thing is that the job get done, whether in one or ten sentences, whether directly by means of a question or indirectly by means of context. Only if the entire writing is anticipated can organizational patterns be devised. And only if we have a clear organization can we link our ideas together.

We have spoken only of beginnings. Although equal care should be devoted to middles and ends, the beginning is the crucial spot. We have discussed it very briefly and only as it relates to linkage and sequence. There is no such thing as sequence and logical development toward an unknown goal. Rather, every sentence should be like a single paper clip in a whole chain of them. When the first one is picked up, the rest follow naturally. They will not do so unless someone has anticipated our desire for a chain and has gone through the entire pile of them, patiently hooking each one to the next.

When you write, then, pay careful attention to the white spaces between sentences. Ask if the reader will anticipate the sentence which follows, or whether your page will become a mass of the wiggling limbs of readers who have fallen between the sentences and got stuck there. Look even more carefully at the trackless wilderness between paragraphs. Have you told your traveler exactly how to get from one paragraph to the next? Have you told him in the beginning how you intend to develop your thesis-how many subtopics you will touch on, and in what order?

And do much reading of good expository prose. Study introductions. See how the writer will say things like this: "To prove my point we must consider four features of the situation. First, . . . ." And after listing the chief points, he will again and again identify them as you reach them in the text. "The second of our main topics, the relationship of proper training to personnel happiness, needs subdivision itself, and we shall treat of three aspects of it." And you will frequently see entire onesentence paragraphs like this: "It is necessary now to turn our attention from the more abstract realm of political theory to the concrete one of political activity."

Writing is visible thought; good thinking is sequential and organized; our links must demonstrate these qualities in our writing. "Our style,' wrote Ben Jonson, "should be like a skein of silk, to be carried and found by the right thread, not ravelled and perplexed: then all is a knot, a heap."

Logic and Syntax

ACH OF US at one time or another has received from the postman a package which may once have been all in one piece, perhaps even handsome, but which now "lies at random, carelessly diffus'd, with languish❜t head unpropt, as one past hope, abandon'd." In short, it began life neatly wrapped and properly addressed, its content of goodies firmly clutched, only to find that it had not anticipated the ingenuity and power of a modern postal service. Wrenched and twisted, tossed and thrown, it has lost all of its beauty and most of its contents.

So with sentences, the packages in which we wrap up our ideas with so much crooning tenderness and parental pride. We send them on their way and settle back to reap the rewards of our incisive intelligence and writing skill. But something almost always happens to them. Instead of making all our readers murmur approvingly and whisper to their deskmates, "Keep an eye on this Smithers-he's a comer," they are just as likely to cause misunderstanding, the curled lip and the raised eyebrow. "Gentlemen," comes the reply to our felicitously expressed letter, "it is regretted that you have announced your refusal to cooperate in this national venture which is of so great moment to many vital issues. Needless to say, the attitude of your office will be brought to the attention of appropriate. . . ." We are on our feet by this time, clutching the brow, ready to shout to all who will listen that we never said any such thing. What we did say was that before committing ourselves in this worthy cause, we felt it incumbent upon us to secure assurance of a fair and equitable division not only of labor but of such credit (we actually said "kudos," one of the most brilliant touches in a remarkable letter) as might accrue in due course from said efforts, and so forth. We did not say we would not cooperate. They must not have even read the letter— either that or the level of intelligence in that office is down somewhere around the subbasement. And so on and so on.

The point is this: Our sentences are not only grammatical units, not only semantic parcels, not only syntactical constructions; they are also, and mainly, logical patterns. Every principle of clear thinking must be made manifest in the very shape of the sentence we use. The package must fit the thought. If we receive in the mail a huge parcel shaped like

a bass fiddle, we do not expect to find a mouth organ inside. Similarly, if we see a sentence, consisting of two independent clauses and one participial phrase, we do not expect to find a single main idea with two modifiers inside. This is another way of expressing a truth mentioned earlier: The way we say something is what we say. How often we hear someone say, "Now, that's the idea all right, but let's express it a bit differently." The package does not quite fit. In transit it is likely to get broken; the contents are likely to fall out.

Form and Content

We have made the point before that statement is a vastly different thing from meaning. All words have meaning, in a general sense, but only very special arrangements of them make statements. The more formal way to describe the twofold nature of a sentence is to refer to meaning as content, and to statement as form. The form is structure, syntax, grammar, all of the mechanical matters which some are inclined to dismiss as not essential to effective writing. The content is the semantic aspect.

One who thinks of form as of little importance except to scholars and pedants should consider a pair of sentences like the following:

1. It is easy to write well.

2. It is not easy to write well.

We can agree, I think, that these two sentences make totally different statements. But their content is identical; only the form is different. The negative is not a meaning; it has no content in itself; but it does alter the form. So unless we feel that the two sentences say the same thing, we must consider, even if very briefly, the relationship of form (syntax) to logic and to clear statement.

The Three Steps in Clear Thinking

This topic, as stated, leaves much to be desired, but no better phrasing suggests itself. Admittedly, however, it is boastful, since no one can talk about clear thinking except within the limitations of his own thought processes, which conceivably are not perfect; and it is misleading in suggesting that so vast a subject can be divided into three or any other number of parts. There might just as well be fifteen, or two, according to the way the topic is approached. This arbitrary threeness smacks of certain educational areas (notably education and the social sciences), in which

students are taught the "five motives for learning," or "the six purposes of reading," etc. Students memorize the little tables, parrot them back on examinations, and go on their way rejoicing-but totally uneducated.

With this understood, we can perhaps still say something of practical use to the writer as he endeavors to make his thought process visible on a page.

At the elementary level, things are pretty clear. We cannot consider clear thinking apart from one obvious, preliminary requirement: We must segregate our thoughts. The man who talks to us about four topics at once, mixes up his facts and his opinions, drags in irrelevant details, and generally wanders all over the map is not a man who is thinking clearly. The first job is to exclude from consideration ideas which are not pertinent, facts which are not relevant, arguments which are not germane. We have all suffered from people who refuse to clear out the brambles from the field, people who start out to tell us about a rather strange experience they once had with an eel. It was last summer, they say, along about mid-June-no, it must have been late June because Aunt Sarah doesn't let us use the cottage until she goes to Canada, and she always goes the fourth week in June because she always says there's snow on the ground up there until practically midsummer. One time, I remember, she got to Canada a few days early and . . . and so it goes. We hear a lot about weather conditions in Canada and Aunt Sarah's lumbago; but the eel, as likely as not, is forgotten.

This is an extreme case, but we spend hours each day reading letters and reports which consist of a few nuggets of essential meaning and great quantities of irrelevant detail. The segregation process has not been performed. Someone writes in to ask, for example, whether he must keep records of a certain type of expenditures. Unless he is lucky, the reply may well consist of a review of the legal background of the problem, the various acts of Congress in the matter, and some account of the changes and revisions made over the years. If one clear, segregated sentence among the hundreds replies to the inquirer's specific query, he has done well.

But, one may object, all of the background material may be necessary to an understanding of the situation; we have not done our duty by the topic simply by recording the simple answer to the inquirer's question. This may very well be at least partly true, and it illustrates one of the most troublesome features of effective segregation. How much is necessary to do the job we have in mind? Where shall we draw the line between incompleteness and unnecessary detail? These questions only