The art of nonfiction_ a guide for writers and readers.

by Ayn Rand, Robert Mayhew.

INTRODUCTION

To all the pract.i.tioners-and to all the discouraged, might-have- been pract.i.tioners-of the art of nonfiction writing, the author of this book offers an invaluable service: she de-mysticizes writing.

The process of writing is widely regarded as an impenetrable mystery. Good writing, it is believed, is the product of some inborn ability, which can be neither objectively defined nor systematically learned. Like ardent religionists who insist that the road to truth is open only to those who are visited by divine revelation, many teachers of writing claim that the path to effective prose can be traversed only if one is struck by the inexplicable thunderbolt of inspiration.

Ayn Rand rejects this idea. She maintains that writing is a rational sphere, governed by rationally identifiable principles.

"Writing is no more difficult a skill than any other, such as engineering," she says. "Like every human activity, it requires practice and knowledge. But there is nothing mystical to it." Since writing is essentially the act of communicating your thoughts clearly, it can be done competently by virtually everyone: "Any person who can speak English grammatically can learn to write nonfiction.... What you need for nonfiction writing is what you need for life in general: an orderly method of thinking."

In a.n.a.lyzing the process of writing, her starting point-unlike that of other theorists-is not the content of the writer's mind, but the source of such content: the facts of reality. On this philosophic issue, Ayn Rand was an unyielding advocate of the Aristotelian view, which she described as the primacy of existence-the view that the universe exists independent of anyone's awareness of it, that the function of consciousness is to grasp, not to create, reality, and that the absolutism of existence is what ought to shape one's thoughts (and actions).

This is the premise that underlies her approach to writing. Repudiating the standard, subjectivist perspective, she holds that writing is to be treated as an objective science: "Whenever you have a problem, whether you are writing an article or building a doghouse, do not look inside inside for the solution. Do not ask: 'How do I do it? Why don't for the solution. Do not ask: 'How do I do it? Why don't I I know it?' Look know it?' Look outside outside and ask: 'What is the nature of the thing I want to do?' " From this, she proceeds to discuss the nature of writing and its consequent requirements, such as the strict need to delimit one's subject and theme, or the indispensability of an outline. She provides clear, perceptive principles about the psychological process of writing (such as the different roles played by the conscious mind and the subconscious), along with methodical advice to guide you through the process (from getting ideas, to choosing your subject and theme, to polishing your draft). and ask: 'What is the nature of the thing I want to do?' " From this, she proceeds to discuss the nature of writing and its consequent requirements, such as the strict need to delimit one's subject and theme, or the indispensability of an outline. She provides clear, perceptive principles about the psychological process of writing (such as the different roles played by the conscious mind and the subconscious), along with methodical advice to guide you through the process (from getting ideas, to choosing your subject and theme, to polishing your draft).

The primacy of extrospection over introspection leads to another important principle of writing. Ayn Rand urges writers to direct their attention solely to their work-to what is needed to do it well, to how to solve problems that arise-but not to its supposed meaning for one's worth as a person: "If you have difficulty with writing, do not conclude that there is something wrong with you. Writing should never be a test of self-esteem."

Of course, according to the mystical viewpoint, the writer's self-esteem will always be at issue. If writing is a matter of being zapped with inspiration by a gracious muse, the absence of such inspiration must indicate unworthiness on the writer's part.

One of the worst consequences of that viewpoint is the mental torture it inflicts upon writers. If the content of your consciousness arises causelessly, independent of reality, then writing is a journey not into the unknown, but into the unknowable. If there are no firm rules by which to proceed-if one must stare pa.s.sively at an empty page or empty screen, with mind idling, waiting desperately for the muse to hit the accelerator-then writing must be laden with anxiety and guilt. It is tantamount to trying to design a computer with no principles of electronics or mechanics, only the hope of somehow being moved by the right "spirit."

Since writing should be regarded as a science, Ayn Rand says, the job of the writer is at root no different from that of the scientist. "It would never occur to a scientist to focus partly on his experiment and partly on his self-esteem or future fame. (If it does, he is a neurotic and will probably not be heard from.) He has to focus exclusively on his experiment. Nothing else is relevant. The same applies to writing, only it is harder because it is a purely mental job-there is nothing in reality yet except a blank sheet of paper. This is why so many people fail at it. It is harder to focus on the reality of what you have to produce when there is nothing before you but a blank page.... In practice, you must be more more reality-oriented than a scientist, who has the help of the physical problem and the physical objects he is working with." reality-oriented than a scientist, who has the help of the physical problem and the physical objects he is working with."

This is not just the de-mysticizing, but the de-agonizing of writing. Ayn Rand's methodology will not make writing problem-free, but something much better: problem-solvable. The conviction that one's work can be guided by rational principles rescues writers from a sense of helplessness. It saves them from the state of pre-science savages, who felt they were at the mercy of incomprehensible forces. Such a feeling is paralyzing to a writer, who has to know that, in principle, in principle, he is in control of his work-that his success depends, not on some inscrutable emanations from his gut, but on identifiable ideas from his brain. he is in control of his work-that his success depends, not on some inscrutable emanations from his gut, but on identifiable ideas from his brain.

Those who are serious about writing should find this approach enormously rewarding. I know that after reading an early transcript of this material years ago, I found the process of writing much easier and more enjoyable. The approach presented in this book makes writing a definable-and thus readily doable-activity, rather than a debilitating battle. I use much of this material in a writing cla.s.s I teach at the Objectivist Graduate Center of the Ayn Rand Inst.i.tute. And the response I typically get from students is something along the lines of: "So there is a definite method by which to write-and it works!"

The transcript I originally saw was merely a verbatim account of Ayn Rand's extemporaneous remarks. In this book, by contrast, her presentation has been impressively reorganized, with material taken painstakingly from one comer of the transcript and moved to another, where it logically belongs. Robert Mayhew deserves abundant praise for his editing, which has resulted in a much more integrated and readable product.

Those who experience the process of writing as overwhelming and traumatic will, I expect, find this book liberating. During the Renaissance, scientists-armed with the revived Aristotelian confidence in the power of reason-came to realize that the world was theirs to conquer. Writers, armed with Ayn Rand's de-mysticizing approach to writing, can be similarly unleashed, with the world of words theirs to master.

-Peter Schwartz Danbury, Connecticut July 1999

EDITOR'S PREFACE

In 1969, Ayn Rand gave a course on nonfiction writing to well over a dozen friends and a.s.sociates. At the time, she was editor of The Objectivist The Objectivist magazine (Objectivism is the philosophy she originated); she gave the course to help those who were, or planned to be, contributors. magazine (Objectivism is the philosophy she originated); she gave the course to help those who were, or planned to be, contributors.

She did not deliver prepared lectures. Instead, she spoke on a topic (some evenings for over three hours) guided solely by a brief outline. These "lectures" were interspersed with: general discussion; requests for clarification, with her replies; discussion of homework a.s.signments; and question-and-answer periods.

The course was privately recorded. My task was to convert the recording into a book. Let me describe the kinds of editing I did.

Cutting. A great deal of material had to be cut, though I am confident that nothing of importance pertaining to nonfiction writing was omitted. (Prompted by student questions, Ayn Rand occasionally went off on fascinating tangents into philosophy, politics, and art. Much of what she said is of great interest, and such material will no doubt be published in some form eventually; but it does not belong in this book.) In regard to nonfiction writing, I a.s.sumed that every pa.s.sage of hers was worthy of inclusion unless I could make a case for its omission. If, for example, while she was lecturing, a student interjected a question, and her brief reply added nothing to the discussion (because it was repet.i.tive or dealt with a narrow problem of no general interest), I omitted it. Or if the students spent two hours discussing their outlines or writing samples with her, I did not include the entire discussion. However, I always tried to incorporate into the book any important insights or principles that she mentioned during these discussions. A great deal of material had to be cut, though I am confident that nothing of importance pertaining to nonfiction writing was omitted. (Prompted by student questions, Ayn Rand occasionally went off on fascinating tangents into philosophy, politics, and art. Much of what she said is of great interest, and such material will no doubt be published in some form eventually; but it does not belong in this book.) In regard to nonfiction writing, I a.s.sumed that every pa.s.sage of hers was worthy of inclusion unless I could make a case for its omission. If, for example, while she was lecturing, a student interjected a question, and her brief reply added nothing to the discussion (because it was repet.i.tive or dealt with a narrow problem of no general interest), I omitted it. Or if the students spent two hours discussing their outlines or writing samples with her, I did not include the entire discussion. However, I always tried to incorporate into the book any important insights or principles that she mentioned during these discussions.

Reorganizing. Ayn Rand did not present this course as a series of lectures corresponding exactly to the chapters of this book. How, then, was her course organized? Ayn Rand did not present this course as a series of lectures corresponding exactly to the chapters of this book. How, then, was her course organized?

When it began, she did not have a complete picture of what material would be covered, or even how many times the cla.s.s would meet. Nor did she have in mind an exact order of presentation. On the first night, she told the cla.s.s: As late as this afternoon, I wasn't yet sure whether I would be giving a series series of cla.s.ses. Originally, I thought we might cover everything in one evening. Well, that's where I'm not omniscient: Since then, I made a brief outline of the main topics that of cla.s.ses. Originally, I thought we might cover everything in one evening. Well, that's where I'm not omniscient: Since then, I made a brief outline of the main topics that I I know of (which does not yet include any questions you may have). If we finish everything in ten lectures, we will be doing very well. know of (which does not yet include any questions you may have). If we finish everything in ten lectures, we will be doing very well.

In fact, it took them sixteen evenings, meeting usually every other week, to "finish everything."

Whatever was undecided at the outset, the basic logical structure of the core of the course was clear to Ayn Rand from the start. This core is found in chapters 1-8; this is where she covers the central aspects of nonfiction writing. Here she had a definite structure in mind, and I followed it. No major reorganization was required.

The material in the remaining chapters (9-12) is not part of what she considered the "main topics" of the course. These chapters instead consist of her extensive answers to questions on miscellaneous topics in regard to nonfiction writing-all too good to omit. With one exception, Ayn Rand answered these questions in the order in which they were asked, and so I had to determine the proper order of presentation in a book. I did place "Acquiring Ideas for Writing" (chapter 12) last because she indicated that this issue could best be covered at the end. Since there was no formal conclusion, I ended with the story she herself used to end the course.

Given the extemporaneous nature of her presentation, and the extent of student partic.i.p.ation, there were numerous digressions-for example, she would often return to points discussed earlier, or respond to questions or comments on later or tangential issues. Part of my job was to integrate this material into a logical presentation. Thus, within every chapter it was necessary to some extent to shift material around.

Line editing. My aim here was to ensure that the writing was clear and readable. This involved transforming Ayn Rand's oral presentation into written form, i.e., condensing what she said, eliminating repet.i.tions, and, where necessary, correcting grammar. My aim here was to ensure that the writing was clear and readable. This involved transforming Ayn Rand's oral presentation into written form, i.e., condensing what she said, eliminating repet.i.tions, and, where necessary, correcting grammar.

Notwithstanding the amount of editing required, it is remarkable how lucid her extemporaneous material is. But there are occasions when the recording is unclear or contains gaps. In most of these cases, no educated guess at a meaning was possible, and so the pa.s.sage was omitted. In rare cases, it was almost, but not absolutely, certain what her meaning was; here the wording necessary to make the pa.s.sage fully clear was supplied.

Because of the number of editorial changes I made, it would have distracted the reader had I used the apparatus of brackets and ellipses. Therefore, I use brackets only for text that could not have come from Ayn Rand. For example, if she referred to something she had said three months earlier, I would change it to, say, "as I discussed in [chapter 1]."

My purpose was not to turn Ayn Rand's remarks into a smooth, finished piece of writing. Rather, it was merely to help in making the course clearer and more readable. I believe I have fulfilled this task, and I am pleased with the results. But this book, I stress, still retains the quality of an extemporaneous presentation. Ayn Rand never intended her unprepared remarks in 1969 to be transformed into a book. In fact, in answer to a student's question about the nature of a first draft, she said: "When I give these lectures, I speak from an outline, and my subconscious fills in the concretes. If you transcribed a recording of them, that would be like a very rough first draft. But it would not be good enough to publish." In my judgment, however, it is eminently "good enough" now to read.

If you wish to see or judge the merits of Ayn Rand's own writing, please consult the works that she did did intend for publication. intend for publication.

I wish to thank, most of all, Leonard Peikoff for allowing me to undertake this project, for his superb and extensive editorial guidance during its first stages, and for giving the entire ma.n.u.script a final editing. The principles of editing he taught me will continue to be useful well beyond my work on this book. Many thanks to Peter Schwartz as well, for writing the introduction, and for his excellent editorial advice in the last stages of the project. His work on this book has improved every page. I also want to thank the Ayn Rand Inst.i.tute for its help, which took many forms. Finally, and as always, I wish to thank my wife, Estelle, for solving the many computer problems I encountered while working on this book, and for her many other forms of support.

1

Preliminary Remarks

The first precondition of this course, and of any type of writing, is: do not get a sense of unearned guilt. If you have difficulty with writing, do not conclude that there is something wrong with you. Writing should never be a test of self-esteem. If things are not going as you want, do not see it as proof of an unknowable flaw in your subconscious.

Never take the blame for something you do not know. Be sure, however, to take the blame for writing errors you do know about. That much is open to your conscious mind, and pertains to how carefully you edit.

If you tell yourself you are guilty for not writing brilliant sentences within five minutes, that stops your subconscious and leads to a host of writing problems. Writing is not an index of psychological health. (Overconscientiousness is one reason a person might aspire to something too ambitious, and then blame himself if it does not come easily.) If you do have any guilt, earned or unearned, that is between you and your psychologist. When you sit down to write, however, you must regard yourself as perfect, omniscient, and omnipotent.

Of course, you are not omniscient and omnipotent; no human skill, if at all interesting, can be perfect every time. Properly, therefore, you should feel that you have the capacity to write well, but that it is difficult. And you should not want an easy job-you do not want to be a hack-and therefore you should take all the trouble, and have all the patience, that writing requires. Do not conclude, at the first difficulty, that you are hopeless. This is the sense in which you must feel omniscient and omnipotent: not that everything you write will automatically be perfect, but that you have the capacity to make your work what you want to make it.

This leads to a second point. Contrary to all schools of art and esthetics, writing is something one can learn. There is no mystery about it.

In literature, as in all the fine arts, complex premises must be set early in a person's mind, so that a beginning adult may not have enough time to set them and thus cannot learn to write. Even these premises can be learned, theoretically, but the person would have to acquire them on his own. So I am inclined to say that fiction writing-and the fine arts in general-cannot be taught. Much of the technical skill involved can be, but not the essence.

However, any person who can speak English grammatically can learn to write nonfiction. Nonfiction writing is not difficult, though it is a technical skill. Its only difficulty pertains to a person's method of thinking or psycho-epistemology.1 What you need for nonfiction writing is what you need for life in general: an orderly method of thinking. If you have problems in this regard, they will slow you down (in both realms). But writing is literally only the skill of putting down on paper a What you need for nonfiction writing is what you need for life in general: an orderly method of thinking. If you have problems in this regard, they will slow you down (in both realms). But writing is literally only the skill of putting down on paper a clear clear thought, in thought, in clear clear terms. Everything else, such as drama and "jazziness," is merely the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. terms. Everything else, such as drama and "jazziness," is merely the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.

I once said that the three most important elements of fiction are plot, plot, and plot. The equivalent in nonfiction is: clarity, clarity, clarity, clarity, and and clarity. clarity.

Harold Fleming, the author of Ten Thousand Commandments, Ten Thousand Commandments, once showed me a quotation he carried with him, from once showed me a quotation he carried with him, from The Education of Henry Adams: The Education of Henry Adams: "The result of a year's work depends more on what is struck out than on what is left in, on the sequence of the main lines of thought, than on their play and variety." Incidentally, there is not one extra word in this quotation. It is pruned down to the minimum necessary to express the thought. This is a fine way of making the point that clarity comes above all else. The first absolute is: be clear. Drama, jazziness, color-which can be added later-are never as important as clarity. "The result of a year's work depends more on what is struck out than on what is left in, on the sequence of the main lines of thought, than on their play and variety." Incidentally, there is not one extra word in this quotation. It is pruned down to the minimum necessary to express the thought. This is a fine way of making the point that clarity comes above all else. The first absolute is: be clear. Drama, jazziness, color-which can be added later-are never as important as clarity.

n.o.body can learn to write without practicing, because there are so many subconscious integrations to be automatized. n.o.body can write strictly by conscious effort. No matter how much theory you know, you will not be a good writer until you practice. Therefore, do not expect your first articles to be easy. They will be difficult, and as you develop they will become even more difficult, because you will attempt more ambitious themes. But in a different sense writing becomes easier: with each article you write you learn something, so that at the end of the article you are better than you were at the beginning.

How good you become depends on your premises and interests, and on how much time you devote to writing. But the skill can be learned. It is not mysterious and does not have to be torture.

Remember this point, particularly when you feel you will never write again or know what writing is. That sense of helplessness is inherent in struggling with a new thought. But any particular writing problem you might have is solvable (though, as in any introspection, it is not always easy to identify your problem). Writing is no more difficult a skill than any other, such as engineering. Like every human activity, it requires practice and knowledge. But there is nothing mystical to it.

The secret of writing is to be professional about it.

You can be professional before you publish anything-if you approach writing as a job. If you apply to writing the same standards and methods that people regularly apply to other professions, you will take a lot of weight off your subconscious and increase your productive capacity.

If you do not regard writing as a job, self-doubt will necessarily enter your mind, and you will be paralyzed. You will be putting yourself on trial every time you attempt to write. Instead of being an expression of your self-esteem, writing becomes its test. If so, it will be a miracle if you ever connect two sentences.

What does a person do in other professions when he feels self-doubt? If his approach is professional, he retains his knowledge of his own intelligence. He does not doubt his professional abilities, even though he may have difficulties to solve. He also understands that if he wants to advance, he has to expand his knowledge. The "If I don't get a raise there's something wrong with me" type of self-doubt is not relevant and does not enter his mind.

This same hard-headed, reality orientation is what you have to a.s.sume in regard to writing. I regard the piece of paper as my employer. I have to fill that piece of paper. How I feel-whether it is difficult or not, whether I am stuck or not-is irrelevant. It is as irrelevant as it would be if I were an employee of Hank Rearden [an industrialist in Atlas Shrugged]. Atlas Shrugged]. He would not tolerate it if I told him, "I can't work today because I have self-doubt" or "I have a self-esteem crisis." Yet that is what most people do, in effect, when it comes to writing. I have always taken the professional approach. Of course, I can never guarantee how long some piece will take me, but my a.s.signment is always to fill that page. I know a certain subject has to be stated, and I have the capacity to state it. What the difficulties are is irrelevant. They are my problem, and I will solve it. He would not tolerate it if I told him, "I can't work today because I have self-doubt" or "I have a self-esteem crisis." Yet that is what most people do, in effect, when it comes to writing. I have always taken the professional approach. Of course, I can never guarantee how long some piece will take me, but my a.s.signment is always to fill that page. I know a certain subject has to be stated, and I have the capacity to state it. What the difficulties are is irrelevant. They are my problem, and I will solve it.

My focus in this course is on writing articles, though much of what I say applies to books as well. Among articles, my focus is on the "middle range."

Nonfiction writing covers a wide range, from theoretical works that deal with broad, abstract principles, to concrete journalistic reporting. Theoretical articles discuss new fundamentals or present a new approach to issues on a fundamental level. (See, for example, Leonard Peikoff's "The a.n.a.lytic-Synthetic Dichotomy."2) The proper medium for these articles is academic journals (except in the case of Objectivist articles, since no academic journal would publish them). Journalistic articles, on the other hand, consist not of theorizing, but of reporting on a given phenomenon or event-describing some concrete event or situation. (See, for example, Henry Kamm's "For Three Minutes I Felt Free."3) The articles I most enjoy writing are in the middle range.

Middle-range articles fall somewhere between theoretical and journalistic articles. They consist of the application of abstractions to concretes, which is what most intellectual magazines contain. Such articles deal neither with philosophical theory nor with concrete reporting. They accept a theoretical proposition and a.n.a.lyze some current event or some aspect of the culture from that viewpoint.

Two examples are Pope Paul VI's encyclical Humanae Vitae, Humanae Vitae, and my reply to it, "On Living Death." and my reply to it, "On Living Death."4 The Pope's encyclical is middle-range-actually, high middle-range-because he applies basic principles of Catholic philosophy and religion (concerning the sanct.i.ty of life, G.o.d's will, and a woman's duty) to narrower issues, namely love, marriage, and birth control. The idea of G.o.d's will, or the view that man may not interfere with natural processes, is a theoretical subject; but it is applied here to such issues as what man should do in marriage. In my reply, I do not state any new Objectivist theory; I discuss why the Pope's theories are wrong from the Objectivist viewpoint. I apply my view of human rights, the nature of love, and the nature of marriage to the issues raised in this encyclical. That is writing in the middle range. The Pope's encyclical is middle-range-actually, high middle-range-because he applies basic principles of Catholic philosophy and religion (concerning the sanct.i.ty of life, G.o.d's will, and a woman's duty) to narrower issues, namely love, marriage, and birth control. The idea of G.o.d's will, or the view that man may not interfere with natural processes, is a theoretical subject; but it is applied here to such issues as what man should do in marriage. In my reply, I do not state any new Objectivist theory; I discuss why the Pope's theories are wrong from the Objectivist viewpoint. I apply my view of human rights, the nature of love, and the nature of marriage to the issues raised in this encyclical. That is writing in the middle range.

If I wrote a critique of Kant, and in the process I defined some new theory,5 that would be a theoretical article. But if I simply took an aspect of his philosophy and showed why it is wrong according to Objectivism, that would be middle range. that would be a theoretical article. But if I simply took an aspect of his philosophy and showed why it is wrong according to Objectivism, that would be middle range.

Theoretical articles, written to present something fundamental and new, are the most valuable. But you should not aim for them. You should not wait to discover something new in order to write.

No matter what you write, however, a knowledge of the principles of writing is invaluable. But what you do not know consciously is not really knowledge. If you do not know certain principles of thinking and writing explicitly, you are helpless to use them. You may practice these principles without knowing it (like the man in Moliere's comedy who did not know he was talking prose); but they are not in your control if you have never conceptualized them.

The present course should help you immensely with this task. This does not mean that inspiration will come to you automatically. But it does mean that you will know how to make it come when you need it.

2

Choosing a Subject and Theme

Whenever you have a problem, whether you are writing an article or building a doghouse, do not look inside inside for the solution. Do not ask: "How do I do it? Why don't for the solution. Do not ask: "How do I do it? Why don't I I know it?" Look know it?" Look outside outside and ask: "What is the and ask: "What is the nature nature of the thing I want to do?" of the thing I want to do?"

What is the nature of an article? First observe that you cannot do everything at once. Whatever you are writing-a theoretical work on a revolutionary idea or a small piece about a narrow concrete-you cannot say everything you know about the subject. You must accept this premise fully, so that it becomes part of your subconscious and operates automatically. You can do this by asking yourself whether you always knew everything you know today. Obviously you did not. Knowledge is acquired in steps.

Good teachers recognize that you cannot teach everything at once, which is why a four-year course of study must be divided into semesters, and semesters into individual lectures. But when it comes to writing, people forget this principle and attempt to cram everything they know about the subject into one article. Yet this cannot be done even in a series of books. Since every item of knowledge is connected to every other, and since there is only one reality, if you wanted to present an exhaustive case on any one subject, you would have to write the work of a universal scholar. For example, you would start with an article on the New York theater, and would end up covering science, epistemology, metaphysics, psychology, etc.

All writing is selective selective in every aspect-not only in its style, but in its most basic content, because you cannot communicate everything. in every aspect-not only in its style, but in its most basic content, because you cannot communicate everything.

(However, I prefer the person who tries to write everything in one article-which at least reveals a good intention-to the concrete-bound writer who discusses only the toes of a statue, or to the linguistic a.n.a.lyst who can write only about the ten uses of the word "but." So if you are overambitious, I sympathize with you; nevertheless, this approach is disastrous.) You must delimit your subject and theme.

Some people commit the error of trying to present all they know by writing an unanswerable unanswerable article. This is a mistake on at least two counts. First, it is impossible, because if the theme is important, it would take a book to article. This is a mistake on at least two counts. First, it is impossible, because if the theme is important, it would take a book to prove prove it. In an article, you do not prove your theme, you it. In an article, you do not prove your theme, you demonstrate demonstrate it. These are almost synonymous, but here is the distinction. "Proof" applies mainly to theoretical subjects. But when you write about merely an aspect of a subject, such as a cultural or philosophical issue that is part of a cl.u.s.ter of issues, you do not try to prove some point. That would require a much broader and longer piece. Instead, you demonstrate your point, i.e., present it and it. These are almost synonymous, but here is the distinction. "Proof" applies mainly to theoretical subjects. But when you write about merely an aspect of a subject, such as a cultural or philosophical issue that is part of a cl.u.s.ter of issues, you do not try to prove some point. That would require a much broader and longer piece. Instead, you demonstrate your point, i.e., present it and indicate indicate its proof (which is not the same as giving the proof). For example, in my article "The 'Inexplicable Personal Alchemy,' " its proof (which is not the same as giving the proof). For example, in my article "The 'Inexplicable Personal Alchemy,' "6 I do not prove that we should treat the men of reason better-I merely provide the material for such a proof. I demonstrate that the policy of destroying the young because of their virtues is disastrous, and I show its results in two extreme cases: Russia and America. But to actually prove this, I would have to prove the validity and importance of reason. Here, for an Objectivist audience, I take that premise as axiomatic. (The article is still of value to a non-Objectivist. It will not prove the point to him, but if he is interested, it will jolt him into investigating further the issue of reason versus irrationality. And I present my point in such a way that the worst irrationalist would not dare say openly that he is opposed to those Russian protesters and is in favor of the hippies.) I do not prove that we should treat the men of reason better-I merely provide the material for such a proof. I demonstrate that the policy of destroying the young because of their virtues is disastrous, and I show its results in two extreme cases: Russia and America. But to actually prove this, I would have to prove the validity and importance of reason. Here, for an Objectivist audience, I take that premise as axiomatic. (The article is still of value to a non-Objectivist. It will not prove the point to him, but if he is interested, it will jolt him into investigating further the issue of reason versus irrationality. And I present my point in such a way that the worst irrationalist would not dare say openly that he is opposed to those Russian protesters and is in favor of the hippies.) The second reason why trying to write an unanswerable article is a mistake is that the author is a.s.suming his readers do not possess free will. He is a.s.suming he must present, by some undefined means, a case that no one could resist. But clearly such an a.s.sumption is false. People can evade the most obvious logical connections. Therefore, if you try to write such an article, you are defeated at the outset, because you are asking the impossible of yourself. As a result, either you will be unable to write (and will not know why), or you will write endlessly, following sidelines, each of which leads to further sidelines. Instead of being unanswerable, you will raise more questions than you answer. (This is an eloquent ill.u.s.tration of the fact that acting on a wrong premise achieves the opposite of your intention.) If the unanswerable or exhaustive article is impossible, what kind is possible? An article, by its nature, must treat a severely delimited aspect of a subject, not a whole subject.

The standard of measurement here is relative, but I mean a "whole subject" in its most basic sense. For instance, if your subject is political, then the whole subject is politics, with all its key aspects. That would be a proper subject for a book, but not for an article. Even in writing a book, you would have to delimit what politics is: you cannot include too much metaphysics, epistemology, or ethics, even though each is relevant. In a book, you indicate your framework, delimit your subject, and stick to essentials. So, obviously, any large-scale subject cannot be the focus of an article. (Actually, my Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology7 does not qualify as an article. It is really a monograph, which is why I had to write it in the form of eight installments-much too long even for a theoretical article. It should have been published originally as a book. This is a good ill.u.s.tration of the form an article should not take.) does not qualify as an article. It is really a monograph, which is why I had to write it in the form of eight installments-much too long even for a theoretical article. It should have been published originally as a book. This is a good ill.u.s.tration of the form an article should not take.) Consider my article "On Living Death,"8 which deals with birth control. I do not treat the whole issue, only the Objectivist critique of the Catholic position. Further, I do not cover all the relevant Catholic literature, only one papal encyclical. Even though I deal with fundamentals, my subject is only one aspect of a broad issue. which deals with birth control. I do not treat the whole issue, only the Objectivist critique of the Catholic position. Further, I do not cover all the relevant Catholic literature, only one papal encyclical. Even though I deal with fundamentals, my subject is only one aspect of a broad issue.

A useful exercise is to look at some good articles and name the broader subject and the particular aspect each treats. You will find that the subject always deals with a partial aspect examined from some viewpoint; it is never a crammed condensation of the whole.

Once you recognize the nature of an article, the next step is to decide on an article of your own. Observe that there are two essential elements of an article: subject and theme. The subject subject is what the article is about: the issue, event, or person it deals with. (Again, an article must cover only an aspect of a whole.) The is what the article is about: the issue, event, or person it deals with. (Again, an article must cover only an aspect of a whole.) The theme theme is what the author wants to say about the subject-what he brings to the subject. If the article is in the middle range, he brings his evaluation of the subject; if it is theoretical, he brings his new idea. is what the author wants to say about the subject-what he brings to the subject. If the article is in the middle range, he brings his evaluation of the subject; if it is theoretical, he brings his new idea.

Consider a middle-range approach to the subject of modem theater. You could write many articles on this, and thus write on the same subject but with different themes. For example, one person could write on modem theater as an indication of cultural disintegration, while some modernist might try to show why he thinks it is good, or what its social significance is. There are many potential approaches to the same subject.

As for theoretical works, consider my Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology. Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology. The subject is epistemology (and more narrowly the nature of concepts), and the theme is my theory of concepts. Or: the subject of my article "The Psycho-epistemology of Art" The subject is epistemology (and more narrowly the nature of concepts), and the theme is my theory of concepts. Or: the subject of my article "The Psycho-epistemology of Art"9 is art, and the theme is my definition of the nature, purpose, and source of art. In theoretical articles, the theme is the abstract point the author wants to make. It does not include an evaluation. is art, and the theme is my definition of the nature, purpose, and source of art. In theoretical articles, the theme is the abstract point the author wants to make. It does not include an evaluation.

The easiest way to identify your subject and theme is to ask yourself why you want to write the article. The more clearly you state your answer, the easier it will be to create your outline and write your article.

The question "Why do I want to write this article?" involves two sub-questions: "What subject do I want to write about?" and "What do I want to say about the subject-i.e., what is my theme?" In answering these questions, you may discover that your reasons are inappropriate. For example, you find that you want to write an article because you are angry at the president. That is not yet a good reason. Writing is not occupational therapy. The next question should be: "Is there a wider reason I feel so angry?" If you have a valid reason, and n.o.body has yet taken your particular approach to the president, then your article turns from a vague, subjective emotion into a potentially valuable piece.

As an example of selecting a subject and theme, consider again my 1969 article "The 'Inexplicable Personal Alchemy.' "10 I felt a strong emotion when I read Kamm's piece about the young Russian rebels. I asked my husband whether he had read it, and he had. His reaction was the same, but without the personal details. He thought it was beautiful and possessed grandeur, and that there was something very tragic about it. That was the first clue that my reaction was not totally subjective, i.e., based on mere personal history. I felt a strong emotion when I read Kamm's piece about the young Russian rebels. I asked my husband whether he had read it, and he had. His reaction was the same, but without the personal details. He thought it was beautiful and possessed grandeur, and that there was something very tragic about it. That was the first clue that my reaction was not totally subjective, i.e., based on mere personal history.

My next questions were: "Is there a wider meaning to this feeling? Why do I feel such pain?" Immediately I knew the reason: Kamm's article portrays the destruction of the best of the young. What is so tragic here is that they are idealists in a hopeless situation, and yet they are still trying to fight their destroyers. The next questions I asked were: "Why are they still fighting? Why do I feel their situation is tragic?" I saw that they are fighting on the basis of their virtues, which they are too young to identify. They are doomed, yet it is the best within them that makes them act as they do, without their even knowing fully why.

This was my reaction to the destruction of young people in Russia. So far, it is a narrow subject, of interest in a specialized study of Russia, but not yet appropriate for an American article. But the next connection in my mind was that this phenomenon is not exclusive to Russia. Young people are being destroyed for their virtues and for their devotion to ideas in this country too-in our colleges.