Since sentences are something which, at their best, should be looked through, not at, and since no sentence is better than the thought it contains, it is difficult to draw the line between writing as a technique and writing as an extension of thought. We have, perhaps, already overstepped the bounds and moved into the realm of logic, but not very deeply. For his own edification, as well as his own enjoyment, everyone who writes much should occasionally do a bit of reading in the field of logic and clear thinking. Good books on the subject are plentiful, and the two following ones are simply suggestions: Thinking Straight, by Monroe C. Beardsley (Prentice-Hall, Inc.), 1950; Preface to Critical Reading, by Richard D. Altick (Henry Holt & Co.), 1946.

It is a dull task, this effort to put our ideas in due order and comely array. It is much more fun to dash in all directions, scattering brilliance; but the reader is not thus served. Dr. Johnson has a worthy comment on clear organization: "He that collects topics under proper heads is very laudably employed, for though he exerts no great abilities in the work, he facilitates the progress of others, and, by making that easy of attainment which is already written, may give some mind more vigorous or more adventurous than his own leisure for new thoughts and original designs." (The Idler, No. 85)

Style in Expository Writing

F ANY DISCUSSION of the structure of writing must sooner or later enter the realm of abstract logic, so must any discussion of the effect of writing on the reader expect to make some contact with literary esthetics. This thought is unwelcome to those who feel that writing must be kept a purely technical subject, taught by rule and regulation, just as shorthand or welding is taught. Efficiency in communication, they say, can be gained only by standardizing procedures, establishing uniform techniques, legislating acceptable formats. This point of view is well meant, and we can sympathize with the sincerity of those who hold it; we cannot, however, entirely agree with it. Writing can no more be subjected to absolute regulation and standardization than can thought, and to control writing is to control thought. At the same time we grant— we insist that both thought and its visible extension, writing, must be conducted within, and in obedience to, the principles which, in sum, define the process of thinking and writing. But this is not arbitrary control; this is discipline, which, in its only true sense, must always be voluntary.

This section cannot, therefore, be a real "lesson." There are no "right ways" and "wrong ways" of achieving an effective style; there are only general considerations to be studied.

Style, the Capstone

Good style is the final achievement. An intangible thing at best, it is a quality which appears when all the more specifically definable features of writing are made to work harmoniously together. It cannot be sought as a thing in itself without first seeking a reasonable mastery of mechanics, organization, syntax, logic, and the rest. Like happiness, it is a byproduct of other principles and disciplines, some of them seemingly unrelated to the quality sought, some, even, seemingly opposed to it. If a good style should seem to be effortless, for example, how can the patient, endless search for mechanical correctness help produce it? If the best style should appear to be perfectly natural, how can it arise from artificial processes? We know, however, from our own experience and from the

unanimous opinion of excellent writers that only writing which costs the creator infinite pains makes easy, pleasant reading. Truly natural writing is usually unbearable. It has a style, all right—the worst.

Adjusting Style to Expository Forms

One's style is often said to be his personality. This is true but not the whole story. The writer of exposition is not at liberty to wear sportshirt and shorts and generally "fulfill himself," as he might be expected to do in some sort of personal narrative. Exposition is, technically, formal writing. That is, it appeals primarily to the intellect, not to the emotions, and its purpose is instruction, not entertainment. Since a good style is never divorced from function, expository style must always be keyed to those qualities which best accomplish instruction and intellectual enlightenment. Order, lucidity, exactness, relevance, comprehensiveness, imaginativeness of image and illustration, naturalness and smoothness of sentence structure, awareness of the reader's needs-these are the ingredients. And since they are, we violate not only precepts of effective writing when we ignore them but also principles of style.

In addition to this general consideration, several specific ones deserve discussion. One is the fact that various forms of expository writing demand various features of style. In the interests of simplicity, we may make a twofold division: reports and correspondence.

The writer of a report aims his sentences at an abstraction, the "average reader." There is no sense of personal contact and, consequently, no place for personal casualness. Whether the personal pronoun is entirely ruled out depends on the nature of the report. If it records strictly personal observations, "I" should always be used in preference to the "it was observed" sort of passiveness. If group activities are involved, it is more natural and pleasing to say "we" than "the group" or "the investigative group of which the undersigned was a member." But more frequently reports are about ideas or about other people. In such cases, the writer does not exist on the surface. The report is a photograph. It presents things the way they are. To secure such objectivity, naturally, takes the most painstaking efforts. Phrases such as "all informed persons will agree" must be rooted out, for behind the impersonality of the statement itself there clearly stands a propagandist. Above all, consistency is the goal. Once the tone is established, it must be maintained.

Correspondence, on the other hand, is by its nature personal. One person is talking to another. Any letter which bears a signature has

presumably been written by a real, live human being. A letter written with the complete formality of a report is incongruous. We all know, however, that Government correspondence for years has striven mightily to communicate the feeling of imponderable, impersonal authorship. The name of the signer denotes not so much the person talking with his correspondent as the stamp of authenticity, like "Made in the U.S.A." on manufactured products. In letters to us we are even enjoined not to reply to a person but to an office or to a title. No wonder the ordinary citizen. feels that he wrestles not with flesh and blood but with principalities and powers, perhaps even the shades of darkness. (He gets the same feeling when he writes to straighten out confusion about his subscription to a large magazine.)

We must, of course, recognize that there are many reasons, some of them quite valid, behind this passion for anonymity in Government writers. Officially, it is a branch of the U.S. Government which writes, not an individual in his private capacity. And true it is, too, that citizens write to offices and titles, for persons come and go but authorities continue. These two considerations deserve recognition and respect, but neither dictates the total impersonality which we find so common. And many other reasons given to justify nonhuman letters may be seriously questioned. For example, does the fact that the signer of a letter is rarely the author of it really bar use of the personal pronouns? The signer is nonetheless responsible for it; the recipient of the letter no less associates the letter with the man whose name appears at the bottom. One suspects that the real reason for using the passive voice instead of the personal pronoun is not the desire for impersonality but for indefiniteness. Indeed, it is not difficult to secure a confession on this point from many Government writers. They plead that the matter which is the subject of their letter is not too clearly understood even by those supposed to know; the law is vague, or the interpretations of it vary widely. The solution, then, is to lapse into the indefiniteness of jargon, to assume the protective coloration of the forest, to lose oneself in the vastness of Government organization. For some reason, it appears utterly impossible to tell the reader just what the problem is, to admit frankly that the situation is not entirely clear, that it is impossible to give an exact black-and-white

answer.

This matter of the style of official letters is one which will never be solved until those in the higher echelons, those who finally sign the letters, are willing to give a bit of stylistic leeway to their originators. They have a perfect right to demand absolute conformity in matters of correctness, clarity, directness, and all the other elements of effective writing. But the very essence of a personal style in correspondence is that all the letters should not sound alike. Not only must one expect differences

among the various originators, but one should demand recognition of differences among the readers. A college professor and a manual laborer may ask exactly the same question about his taxes (conceivable, in spite of the obvious superiority of the manual laborer's salary), but the answers should sound completely different.

Another reason cited against truly personal letters is that they are wasteful. In the instance just mentioned, for example, it might be asked why two answers should be devised to the same question. The argument has much to be said for it. No one can question the role of form letters in the interests of efficiency, and form letters are different from many which go out, presumably personal ones, only in frankly admitting their utilitarian nature. But even if some parts of a letter may be quoted from a form, the letter as a whole may still be given personal touches at beginning and end and made almost friendly. They may begin something like this: "This is a form letter which we use to save time and money, but it does not mean that we have not given personal attention to your inquiry. Rather, we believe that it answers your question completely and clearly. If, however, you find anything unclear after reading it, do not hesitate to write us." And many corporations have found that addenda to form letters are useful. Something like this: "As I study your letter, I realize that one point may not be covered by this form reply." Then the personal comment typed at the bottom and signed.

The Ingredients of Expository Style

The extension of our personality in our writing must be limited, at best, in correspondence, and perhaps entirely excluded from most reports. We must, therefore, without forgetting that personality is still the most flavorful ingredient of prose style, consider other, more objective features of the problem.

1. Sentence variety

Dullness is the most damaging flaw which can appear in our writing. The reader will put up with almost anything in the way of erratic punctuation, grammatical error, or poor paragraphing—although we should not tax his patience in these matters-but dullness he will not stand. He will probably not be aware of the cause of his inattention and lassitude, but the damage will be done.

Dullness may be caused by many things, but monotony in writing (or in anything else) is bound to produce it. The same sentence structure