After I submitted my first version of the pamphlet, the editor said I had good material, but that I wrote in a flat, dry manner that read like a synopsis. He asked if I could make it more colorful, but I did not fully understand what he meant. So he gave me a copy of the Max Linder pamphlet in the series-Max Linder was one of the first comedians on the screen, and was famous in Europe-and told me to observe how the author handled the material.

I read the pamphlet and was impressed. The author had done a beautiful job, precisely from the aspect of color. He never said anything in a dry, synopsis style, but neither was every sentence fancy. What he did was dramatize everything. Rather than write, "Max Linder was born in such and such year in Paris," he would say, "On such and such a spring day, a child was born to Mr. and Mrs. Linder." (I do not remember the details.) "And by the year so and so, a blackhaired little boy was marching happily to school in such and such district of Paris." It was much better than this, but that was the method. All I remember today is one sentence-an impressive description characterizing the overall screen image of Linder: "This elegant figure shivering on the screens of the whole world." Old movies did shiver, and this comedian was an elegant top-hat-and-cane type. From this one image I realized what colorful writing was. The author could have said, "He is an elegant screen comedian." Instead, he integrated the whole thought into an immediate visual image: an elegant figure shivering on the screens of the whole world. That taught me an important lesson.

The important part of the story is that although I grasped the principle, I could not write that way immediately. I did jazz up my Pola Negri pamphlet a bit: I avoided saying everything in the manner of a direct synopsis. Instead, I came at it a bit indirectly and, when possible, even elaborated from my own imagination. The editor was satisfied, and it was published. But it was not nearly as good as the Max Linder pamphlet.

Until I began writing We the Living We the Living (in the early thirties), the Max Linder pamphlet remained in my mind as the goal. I thought that this is what an accomplished writer should do, but I also knew that I could not yet do it. But by the time I began writing (in the early thirties), the Max Linder pamphlet remained in my mind as the goal. I thought that this is what an accomplished writer should do, but I also knew that I could not yet do it. But by the time I began writing We the Living, We the Living, I suddenly thought, "Why, I am doing it!" Not consistently, but once in a while. By the time I got to I suddenly thought, "Why, I am doing it!" Not consistently, but once in a while. By the time I got to Atlas Shrugged, Atlas Shrugged, I could almost do it to order. I could almost do it to order.

Developing style involves conditioning your subconscious (which takes years) and, above all, never forcing yourself. I had to wait until I had enough observations and colorful ideas in my subconscious so that the standing orders I gave it could take effect. Only experience will do this, in conjunction with that relaxed permission to your own subconscious to integrate things when and as it can. So do not start aiming at color immediately.

The first thing to remember about style is to forget it. Let it come naturally. You acquire style by practicing. First learn to express your ideas clearly on paper; only then will you notice one day that you are writing in your Let it come naturally. You acquire style by practicing. First learn to express your ideas clearly on paper; only then will you notice one day that you are writing in your own own style. But do not look at the calendar waiting for that day. When you write, focus only on your subject and the clarity with which you present it. style. But do not look at the calendar waiting for that day. When you write, focus only on your subject and the clarity with which you present it.

There are are principles that may help you with style, but this long preface was necessary, because I want to stress that you must not memorize everything I am going to say, nor think about it while you are writing. principles that may help you with style, but this long preface was necessary, because I want to stress that you must not memorize everything I am going to say, nor think about it while you are writing.

In every aspect of style, the absolute standard is your subject and theme. They must determine not only the content and the details, but also the particular words and sentences you select to express them. When you write, do not think about how beautiful your words are, or how people will react, or above all, what it supposedly proves about you. Think exclusively of what you want to say. To the extent to which you can focus on your subject, you will write as best you can at your present stage of development.

It is often said that an artist is selfless-that when he paints or writes, he forgets himself and reality, and sees only his work. The same is said of nonfiction writers. Of course, this is a misapplication of terms, because it means that you have no selfish interest in focusing on your subject-that only being unselfish makes you forget all other considerations but your work. Actually, this exclusive focus on your work is the most selfish thing you can do (in the Objectivist sense of "selfish"32), and you ought to train yourself to do it. If you want to write a good article, it is in your interest to do so. But it is a complicated task, which requires the use of your subconscious; you must forget all your other concerns and remember only what you are writing about.

It would not 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. You have to originate the subject and theme along with everything that goes into carrying out your intention. In practice, therefore, you must be more reality-oriented than a scientist, who has the help of the physical problem and the physical objects he is working with. Aim at being at least at least as reality-oriented as a scientist-which in this context means being as reality-oriented as a scientist-which in this context means being exclusively exclusively focused on your subject. focused on your subject.

Focusing on reality means pursuing clarity. The first concern of style is clarity. Remember that approximations will not do. They can occur in your first draft, but they are the first thing to look for in editing. Holding clarity as an absolute is the surest road first to a competent style, and perhaps eventually to a brilliant style of your own.

As I said in "Basic Principles of Literature,"33 the two main aspects of style-which apply to nonfiction too-are choice of content and choice of words. The first refers to the abstractions or details you choose in order to present a given subject; the second, to the words and sentence structure you choose. the two main aspects of style-which apply to nonfiction too-are choice of content and choice of words. The first refers to the abstractions or details you choose in order to present a given subject; the second, to the words and sentence structure you choose.

In nonfiction, perhaps the main issue in regard to choice of content is the choice between abstract discourse and concretization. Nonfiction is primarily abstract discourse. It is a presentation of certain views, which means certain principles, which means abstractions. When you write nonfiction, you are communicating knowledge. You are dealing with abstract issues, which you present by means of abstractions, i.e., words and sentences. However, you must remember that only concretes exist-that abstractions are merely a method of cla.s.sifying concretes. Therefore, if you are writing an abstract essay, the question will necessarily arise: how and when do you tie what you are saying to reality?

To present an abstract principle, you need ill.u.s.trations. Giving examples (particularly if you are presenting a new theory) ties abstractions to reality-it shows what kinds of concretes ill.u.s.trate the abstraction you are writing about. This is one form of concretization. But what you do in regard to style is more complex. The color, the metaphors, the unusual verbal gimmicks all involve concretization.

In a nonfiction article, you bring in concretizations or colorful details as a means of integrating your subject in the reader's mind. Specifically, this helps integrate not only the abstraction you are presenting and the concretes to which it applies in reality, but also mind and emotions. Colorful touches achieve the integration to values. This is what I call "good slanted writing." By "slanted," I mean writing which is selective-i.e., ruled by your values-not slanted in the sense of distorting reality. In this way you influence not only the mind of the reader, but also his emotions. You appeal to his values.

This sort of concretization is a kind of bridge between nonfiction and fiction writing. The same principle applies to fiction, only in a much more complex way. In choosing value-oriented concretes, you are acting on the fiction-writing premise. Strictly speaking, nonfiction writing is concerned only with clarity of presentation. When you introduce colorful touches, you do so on the same principle by which a fiction writer writes his whole story. You are, in a limited way, borrowing a certain technique from fiction writing.

To ill.u.s.trate how this works, I am going to a.n.a.lyze my "Brief Comments" on Apollo 8. I want to show you, from the aspect of style, what considerations made me concretize certain points, and what would happen had I written it differently.

The article starts with a paragraph and a half that is strictly informative, nonfiction writing: The flight of Apollo 8 was a magnificent technological achievement. Leaving aside the question of whether the government should have a s.p.a.ce program (which, apart from military defense purposes, it should not), it was an achievement of human intelligence, of man's rational faculty. The knowledge and the precision required to plan, calculate, and execute that flight was such a feat that no one will claim it was done by instinct, feeling, or "arbitrary social convention."

This is pure abstract discussion.

Here is the last sentence of the second paragraph: "That flight was a declaration spectacularly displayed to the whole world: 'This is 'This is what man the what man the rational rational being can do.' " This sentence is a concretization of a definite point. Stylistically, it is drama. I could have said, "The flight was a rational achievement," but I had already said that. Therefore, for the purpose of informing the reader, my coming back to the issue of man the rational being was not necessary. Then why did I do it? Here is where theme and subject determine style. What did I want to say about the Apollo 8 flight? I was not discussing the flight as such, nor the epistemological issue of reason versus emotion. I was focusing on a certain image of man and man's achievement. being can do.' " This sentence is a concretization of a definite point. Stylistically, it is drama. I could have said, "The flight was a rational achievement," but I had already said that. Therefore, for the purpose of informing the reader, my coming back to the issue of man the rational being was not necessary. Then why did I do it? Here is where theme and subject determine style. What did I want to say about the Apollo 8 flight? I was not discussing the flight as such, nor the epistemological issue of reason versus emotion. I was focusing on a certain image of man and man's achievement.

Why would people feel enthusiastic if Apollo 8 succeeded ? Because of a properly human, "collective" self-esteem-the pride and pleasure of knowing about something that man at his best has done. Therefore the meaning of the whole flight, to the general public, is a certain view of man and the flight's significance for man. Man is the ultimate purpose-the consumer of any achievement of science. That is what I wanted to communicate. But if I said this in the terms I am using now, I would not communicate much. You would understand me intellectually, but I would not make the point real, because it would still be an abstraction. If I said, "Man ought to be rational, and we are happy when he is," those are abstract thoughts. But when I switch the reader's focus to an image image of man, I concretize something. I introduce something which is still an abstraction (namely, an image of man), but I connect it to reality, as the subject of the piece requires. of man, I concretize something. I introduce something which is still an abstraction (namely, an image of man), but I connect it to reality, as the subject of the piece requires.

Now how could I do this briefly? There were several considerations. Observe the integration. (This is the fiction method.) I wanted the reader to feel that this achievement was great and triumphant. So I say, "That flight was a declaration spectacularly displayed to the whole world." I wanted to mention, but only as an aside, that the whole world was watching. Most of all, I wanted to convey the ringing quality, by connotation, of a manifesto: "This is what man, the rational rational being can do!" I switched from an abstraction to something emotional and concrete. being can do!" I switched from an abstraction to something emotional and concrete.

Here is what follows: "Mankind was in desperate need of that reminder. Consider the sewer of degradation which is today's culture, and the images of man that it projects." Now I could have presented the rest of this paragraph in informational, nonfiction terms: "In politics, the dominant trend is statism; in ethics, altruism; in epistemology, irrationalism; in esthetics, blind emotionalism." This says a lot, and does so economically, but in an abstract, nonfiction style; 1 am merely naming intellectual trends. Observe that what I actually wrote is exactly the same thing, but concretized: Consider ... the images of man that [our culture] projects: politically, man the rightless slave of the state [instead of simply saying "statism"]; morally, man the congenital incompetent, to whose needs all life is to be sacrificed [I concretize what altruism is]; epistemologically, man the mindless, an irrational creature run by unknowable urges [this is a concretization]; esthetically, man the howling hippie [this is a journalistic concrete].34 This is a method of condensing, and thus reminding the reader of, the meaning of the abstractions covered by a single word (such as "statism," "altruism," "irrationalism"). Since the purpose of the article is to tell the reader what the issue of irrationality versus achievement means to a given image of man, I had to make real, in an emotionally arousing way, what sort of images of man are projected today.

In nonfiction terms, I could have concluded this paragraph with: "Therefore the world watched the flight eagerly. It wanted to see a rational achievement." This is a good sentence, which says something important, but it is good enough for a first draft only. What I write in the article is: "If you consider it, you will see that the special intensity, the eagerness, the enthusiasm, with which the world watched the astronauts' journey, came from mankind's hunger for a rea.s.sertion of its trampled self-esteem, for a sight of man the hero." This is concretized, even though abstract. (Mankind's self-esteem, for instance, is a huge abstraction.) But it is enough to appeal to the emotions and values in the reader. "Mankind's trampled self-esteem" is a strong metaphor, and the rational reader should feel a certain shudder of indignation at this point-not because I a.s.sert it arbitrarily, but because I here prepared the ground for it. I listed how man is predominantly seen today, which confirms the trampling of mankind's self-esteem; I provided the concretes, so when I use such a strong expression I do not do so arbitrarily. And by the time I say "man the hero" (after "man the incompetent" and "man the hippie"), it has an inspiring quality. That is good nonfiction writing, which borrows the methods of fiction.

The next (one-line) paragraph reads: "It is an outrage and a tragedy that that sight was undercut." That is an a.s.sertion, and merely another attention-arrester. I continue: When, from the distance of the moon, from the height of the triumph of science, we expected to hear the astronauts' message and heard, instead, a voice reciting the moldy nonsense which even a slum-corner evangelist would not have chosen as a text-reciting the Bible's cosmology-I, for one, felt as if the capsule had disintegrated and we were left in the primordial darkness of empty s.p.a.ce.

At first ("from the distance of the moon," etc.) this is merely selective but factual nonfiction writing. I then write, "the moldy nonsense which even a slum-corner evangelist would not have chosen," in order to concretize my point. I want to invoke, as economically as possible, the questionability of reading the Bible's cosmology. I want the reader to a.s.sociate it with the place where it belongs, which (in the twentieth century, at least) is below a street-corner evangelist. Next, instead of drawing some abstract conclusion, I describe my personal emotions. This approach is determined by my theme. This is not an article on the importance of reason versus faith; it is a comment on a given event. Therefore, the Objectivist context-namely, the importance of reason-is taken for granted. I do not prove it or propagandize for it, but take it as an absolute. So it would have been inappropriate at this point to talk about the impropriety of mixing faith and science.

My aim was to communicate the importance, and the disastrous effect, of Bible-reading in the context of the triumph of science. To do this, I did not have to explain that Bible-reading is irrational. I had to describe an emotional response, and the strongest I could think of was the one I experienced. But saying, "I, for one, felt sick" or "I felt indignant" would be arbitrary and would fall flat. So I indicate, in concrete terms, why why I felt that way: because we were back in the darkness of primordial s.p.a.ce and the capsule had disintegrated. This is metaphorical in the sense that the capsule was still there. But if we had been looking at Apollo 8 as a great achievement, and then this rational being started reading the Bible, then, from the point of view of the meaning of the event, the capsule I felt that way: because we were back in the darkness of primordial s.p.a.ce and the capsule had disintegrated. This is metaphorical in the sense that the capsule was still there. But if we had been looking at Apollo 8 as a great achievement, and then this rational being started reading the Bible, then, from the point of view of the meaning of the event, the capsule had had disappeared. The value of the intellectual triumph was negated by somebody reciting moldy stuff that n.o.body takes seriously. disappeared. The value of the intellectual triumph was negated by somebody reciting moldy stuff that n.o.body takes seriously.

That is what a line and a half accomplished.

The astronauts reading the Bible from s.p.a.ce is the subject of my article. The theme is what I think of that act-why it was wrong. So the climax is the paragraph about the Bible-reading. From then on, I am just cashing in on what I have established.

The next paragraph is essentially nonfiction in style: If you wonder what perpetuates the reign of irrationality on Earth, you have seen a demonstration: it is not done by the worst among men, but by the best-not by the ma.s.ses of the ignorant, but by the leaders who default on the responsibility of thought-not by witch doctors, but by scientists.

For the most part, this is a straight nonfiction presentation. The point does not call for concretization or an appeal to emotions. The only concretization is "not by witch doctors, but by scientists." This is appropriate in order to concretize the issue of irrationality versus reason. Everybody knows that a witch doctor is the symbol of savagery ; and what a scientist is has been demonstrated by the whole article up to that point. Therefore, the juxtaposition of the two concretes adds reality to the nonfiction style of the rest of the paragraph.

The next three paragraphs are a further cashing-in, and were not obligatory. I could have stopped the article with "not by witch doctors, but by scientists." However, I wanted to make a wider point using the same concretes: "No witch doctor's power to encourage mankind's darkest superst.i.tions is comparable to the power of an astronaut broadcasting from the moon."

The next paragraph is a concretization appropriate to the event. It is a conclusion that is pure propaganda, in the good sense of the word. I remind people of what they should have asked themselves long ago about the difference between science and the humanities: "There are two questions that should be asked: Would the astronauts treat the slightest malfunction of the least significant instrument aboard the s.p.a.cecraft as carelessly and thoughtlessly as they treated the most important issues of philosophy?" You could make the same point by saying that n.o.body makes airplanes or automobiles as carelessly as they espouse bad philosophy. But when you think of how much depends on the scientific precision of a s.p.a.ce flight, then it is irresistible to use this example to point out to people that they do not treat matter as carelessly and thoughtlessly as they treat their own souls. Here is the second question: "And, if not, does not man's spirit deserve the same disciplined, conscientious, rational rational attention that they gave to inanimate matter?" attention that they gave to inanimate matter?"

The final paragraph is pure abstraction: "The flight of Apollo 8 was a condensed dramatization of mankind's tragedy: a demonstration of man's epistemological double standard in the field of science and of the humanities." Putting in such touches of philosophy is not something I recommend to beginners, because it is very difficult to do. Do not attempt it until you are more at home with philosophy on the one hand, and with the subject of your article on the other. It is optional in any case. Since I could do it in three lines, it was appropriate. I included it as a lead for the reader; so much nonsense has been written on the dichotomy between science and the humanities, and I had all the material necessary to indicate what is wrong with this false dichotomy. But it is strictly a reminder to my philosophical readers, for whom it is a valuable springboard to future thinking.

What I mean by dramatizing or concretizing should now be clear. There is no rule about when or how often to concretize; in general, do it when you need to tie a certain aspect of your abstract presentation to reality. Do it to appeal to the reader's emotions (specifically, his sense of value) in an economical way, and to remind him of what specifically is entailed in your presentation.

You need to be careful in judging when this is appropriate. Generally, if you are writing a theoretical article, then stylistically you should include concretizing touches as little as possible. They may be advisable, occasionally, when they grow out of your material, but not as a rule. You do give examples, of course, which is an issue of content. But stylistically, you do not need metaphors or color, because they would detract from the clarity of your presentation.

If you think I am a colorful writer, read Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology. There, I do not permit myself any color (except at the conclusion of each chapter, where I tie the material to its cultural influence or consequences). The book is a strict presentation of theory in almost exclusively literal terms: no metaphors, no jazz-only clarity. However, when you write middle-range articles-when you apply abstractions to concretes-you can permit yourself certain elements of color, if they grow out of your material and you do not force anything. Even then, you must not overdo it. In any nonfiction piece, abstract narrative should predominate. You would not write a theoretical article consisting of nothing but examples, and the same applies to these stylistic, concretizing touches. They should be few, and used only when you have a reason for them, not to display your virtuosity or show off your imagination.

Now let me add that these concretizations or dramatic touches are not the only elements of style. Straight narrative itself-the most abstract nonfiction writing-has an element of style, too. It too involves a characteristic, distinctive manner of expression. The driest presentation of even an outline or high school synopsis still contains elements of your particular form of expression, because how you communicate always comes from your individual psycho-epistemology. Since no two of these are exactly alike, everything you write has a certain element of individual style. In the case of a dry synopsis, the variation in the styles of different individuals is minimal; in the case of narrative pa.s.sages, there are major differences.

To sum up: one of the chief factors distinguishing individual style is when, how, and to what extent a writer concretizes.

The other main subdivision of style is word-choice.

There cannot be a rule that only one choice of words will communicate a given thought. I said earlier that you should not aim at the "perfect" article, because it does not exist. Similarly, do not aim at some "perfect" words for a given thought, if only you could get them. They do not exist. The possibilities are limitless, and there are many options. Clarity and precision are the only absolutes. So be guided by the choice of words that expresses your thought as clearly and precisely as possible.

Concretization or emotional appeal enters the issue of word-choice in the form of the connotation of words.

Clarity depends exclusively on the denotation denotation-the exact meaning-of words. But given a particular thought that you want to express, the specific words you use can make a great difference, because in any language there are subtle distinctions of meaning among certain words. Those distinctions determine the connotations connotations of your words; by means of these connotations you achieve the same purpose that you gain by touches of concretization in the choice of content. of your words; by means of these connotations you achieve the same purpose that you gain by touches of concretization in the choice of content.

For example, if you describe a woman as slender, the connotation is entirely different than if you describe her as lanky. While there is a little more than connotation involved here, the words "slender" and "lanky" both describe people who are thin. But the former connotes someone graceful and beautiful; the latter, someone gawky and awkward. Almost every adjective has a series of semi-synonyms of this kind, and you need to be careful about which one you select.

I remember a short story in which the author, describing a hero, wrote: "He looked well scrubbed." She wanted to convey that he was clean-cut, in the serious, intellectual sense. But when you say "well scrubbed," the immediate connotation is non-intellectual; it suggests someone who spends a lot of time in the bathroom with soap and water. By evoking that image, she achieved an unintended effect. That is what you should watch out for. (Most people choose words almost "instinctively"; this choice is so automatized that, usually, a person simply knows when he has chosen the wrong word.) Watch out for philosophical implications, too. For example, if someone writes, "He had an instinct for courage," he may only want to convey, "He is brave." But the actual, and improper, implication is that courage is an instinct.

You must also watch out for the cultural corruption of words. No word can be inherently controversial, but it can become so by protracted cultural usage. For example, today, if you say that somebody is idealistic, it has the connotation of impractical foolishness. Strictly speaking, the word does not mean that. But if you know the word is used that way, do not use it unless your context makes clear what you you mean by it. mean by it.

It is important to know when to continue using a word despite its being corrupted, and when to drop such a word. The real test is: what does the corruption of the word accomplish? For example, I fight for the word "selfishness,"35 even though the word, as used colloquially, designates both criminals and Peter Keatings, on the one hand, and also productive industrialists and Howard Roarks, on the other. even though the word, as used colloquially, designates both criminals and Peter Keatings, on the one hand, and also productive industrialists and Howard Roarks, on the other.36 Here, there is an attempt to obliterate a legitimate concept-selfishness-and thus we should not give up the word. (The same is true for "capitalism.") Here, there is an attempt to obliterate a legitimate concept-selfishness-and thus we should not give up the word. (The same is true for "capitalism.") By contrast, take the word "liberal." In the nineteenth century, this was a proper term which stood for one who defended rights and limited government-except that it never represented a fully consistent political philosophy. So historically, what started as nineteenth-century liberalism gradually became modern liberalism. (Conservatives used to claim they were the true liberals, but they have given up doing so.) Similarly, some people today use "libertarian" to designate the pro-free enterprise position, but there are some modem liberals who call themselves libertarian as well. This stealing of terms with undefined connotations is so prevalent today that I simply do not use any of these words. This is one reason I prefer "pro-capitalist" to "conservative." When what is being disguised or destroyed is not exactly what you uphold, then drop the word and use another.

As a rule, the right connotations contribute to clarity. In other words, there is no necessary conflict between the exact denotation of a word, and its particular shading or emotional connotation. Sometimes, however, the two do conflict: a certain word appeals to you because it has the right emotional connotation, but it does not express what you want to say as clearly as another, less emotional, word. In such cases, sacrifice emotional connotation. I have thrown out beautiful pa.s.sages I loved, because I found, in editing, that they clashed with clarity. If it is a clash between color and clarity, then the color goes. Of course, ultimately the writing then is much more more colorful, because the color grows out of, and supports, the material. colorful, because the color grows out of, and supports, the material.

I will speak briefly about metaphors. Metaphors, which are comparisons of one thing to another, should manipulate properly the consciousness of your reader. For instance, if you say, "The snow was white as sugar," it gives you an impression of that snow. It makes it concrete-and thus much clearer and more real-than if you had said, "The snow was white." Saying that "The sugar was white as snow" does the same thing. The principle is that a metaphor isolates the particular attribute of a given sensory image in order to make the reader fully aware of it. "The snow was white" and "The sugar was white" are merely abstractions. But if you say, "The snow was white as sugar," you make the reader hold in his mind, for a split second, the two concrete images. He has an image of sugar and one of snow, and he sees what they have in common. It is like reconstructing the process of concept-formation in his mind-of observing what attributes two concretes have in common.

Whenever you read a pa.s.sage which contains a metaphor you like, monitor what it actually does for you. You will see that, in an automatized way, the metaphor concretizes a given attribute of a sight or event or situation, thus making it real to you.

That is all there is to the issue of metaphors. I make this point because the greatest mystery is made of this subject in literary courses, particularly in English departments.

So much, in a general way, about the positive side of developing a style. On the negative side, there are several "don'ts," i.e., practices, that I strongly suggest you avoid.

Don't #1: #1: Don't say something in a complicated manner when it can be said simply. Sometimes this error is caused by a mistake in thinking, when a writer has not thought something through adequately and therefore cannot say what he wants in a simple manner. But I am speaking strictly about style here, where a writer does understand the content of his pa.s.sage clearly, but nevertheless puts words together in a complicated way. Don't say something in a complicated manner when it can be said simply. Sometimes this error is caused by a mistake in thinking, when a writer has not thought something through adequately and therefore cannot say what he wants in a simple manner. But I am speaking strictly about style here, where a writer does understand the content of his pa.s.sage clearly, but nevertheless puts words together in a complicated way.

Some writers do this deliberately to conceal the fact that they have nothing to say. Nietzsche has a line [in Thus Spake Zarathustra Thus Spake Zarathustra] about poets muddying their waters to make them appear deep. Other writers do it so that people will not understand too clearly what they are saying. The archetype here is Immanuel Kant. Most of today's newspaper and magazine reporting is a combination of the "muddied waters" approach and a gutter version of Kant. Its authors write so vaguely that they hide the fact that ( 1 ) they have nothing much to say, and (2) what they have to say is so evil that no one would accept it if they said it straight. That is predominantly the way liberals write; they use every euphemism and indirection possible in order not to say that they are advocating dictatorship.

I want to focus here on stylistic errors, however, not on the intention to hide or disguise something.

As an editor, I often correct sentences which, for example, use five words where two would do. That is a purely grammatical issue. In this respect, it is good practice to a.s.sume that you have been given an a.s.signment of a certain number of words. You would be surprised what economy this teaches. In fact, you should write this way even if you have 700,000 words to use, as I did in Atlas Shrugged. Atlas Shrugged. That novel is very economically written given what it says. I was sharply aware of trying not to use a word or a thought that did not contribute something important. Therefore, whether it is a newspaper column or a long novel, the principle is the same: write economically. In editing, try to see how many sentences can be simplified. See if fewer words will convey the same meaning. That novel is very economically written given what it says. I was sharply aware of trying not to use a word or a thought that did not contribute something important. Therefore, whether it is a newspaper column or a long novel, the principle is the same: write economically. In editing, try to see how many sentences can be simplified. See if fewer words will convey the same meaning.

Consider this example of one very abused structure: "It is this issue that contributed to the destruction of the culture." A simpler way of stating this is: "This issue contributed to the destruction of the culture." There are contexts in which the more complex form is necessary, because it has a different emphasis-for example, as a conclusion to a certain development. But I often encounter that structure where it is unnecessary, and then it is very awkward.

Here is another example: "Because A, B, and C-D will result." Do not start a long sentence with the word "because." The reader does not know at the start that you are talking about D, and so you make him retain too many subsidiary or conditional clauses without his knowing why. Do not overload your reader's mind. You are are ent.i.tled to a.s.sume that he is conscientious-that he is not skimming quickly to the bottom of your paragraph, but is going at an even pace and is trying to grasp every word and sub-clause as you present it. But if you use a "because" in this way, your reader may have to return to the beginning of the sentence and reread it. ent.i.tled to a.s.sume that he is conscientious-that he is not skimming quickly to the bottom of your paragraph, but is going at an even pace and is trying to grasp every word and sub-clause as you present it. But if you use a "because" in this way, your reader may have to return to the beginning of the sentence and reread it.

Every rule of this kind has exceptions. In fact, stylistic rules are made to be broken. If you observe them properly, you can sometimes achieve great effects by deliberately breaking them. For example, in one scene in We the Living, We the Living, there is a sentence which runs for almost an entire page, in which I use a lot of subsidiary "because's" separated by colons. It was a deliberate fiction device-a montage of dramatic concretes before I came to the conclusion which followed from these concretes: "-Leo Kovalensky was sentenced to die." there is a sentence which runs for almost an entire page, in which I use a lot of subsidiary "because's" separated by colons. It was a deliberate fiction device-a montage of dramatic concretes before I came to the conclusion which followed from these concretes: "-Leo Kovalensky was sentenced to die."

Don't #2: #2: Don't use a "seventy-five-cent word" where a two-syllable word will do. Memorizing the more obscure parts of the dictionary is not erudition; and erudition (or the desire to show it) is not part of style. The simpler the words, the better. Don't use a "seventy-five-cent word" where a two-syllable word will do. Memorizing the more obscure parts of the dictionary is not erudition; and erudition (or the desire to show it) is not part of style. The simpler the words, the better.

I do not have in mind a folksy, artificial way of talking down to the reader, which one finds in today's political literature. When I say "use simple words," I mean it in the best sense. The simplest words in a language are the most expressive. So question the meaning of anything you cannot convey in simple words. Of course, a word like "epistemology" is not simple (though it is so in the basic vocabulary of philosophy). You need not avoid words for which there are no synonyms. But to use an example I got from Leonard Peikoff: if you want to say, "He said stubbornly," do not use, "He a.s.severated contumaciously."

The archvillain here is William Buckley, who makes a clown of himself. His trademark is to use words he probably spends half his time looking up in the dictionary. He expects you not to know them, and therefore to feel guilty and inferior. But the real effect is that you lose interest.

Whenever you feel the need to use a word like "contumaciously," do not. There are plenty of simple synonyms which are more expressive and direct. Whenever your reader fails to understand a word, you destroy the effect of the content on him. Yet the main purpose of style is to communicate content as clearly and powerfully as possible.

As to the origins of such words, some are obsolete, while others come from obscure, erudite sources a la Kant. They might have been used by writers who wanted to appear to be scholars rather than "common men." They are predominantly archaic, academic remnants; no good writer today uses them. For instance, a good nonfiction writer (whose ideas are atrocious) is Erich Fromm. He writes in simple terms which are valid both for his colleagues and for educated laymen. He is the opposite of Buckley in that respect. This, incidentally, contributes to Fromm's prominence.

Don't #3: #3: Don't use pejorative adjectives, sarcasm, or inappropriate humor. Don't use pejorative adjectives, sarcasm, or inappropriate humor.

In a first draft, it is sometimes valuable to express your feelings fully. For example, in a first draft, I have even written "abysmal b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," knowing this would not go into the final version. I was indicating that I need to project strong indignation and to prove it.

If moral indignation is justified, then why are such words bad, stylistically? Because they are too easy. Unsupported expressions of emotion (e.g., insulting or pejorative adjectives) are arbitrary stylistically, and, philosophically, const.i.tute emotionalism. They have the same stylistic effect as the kind of quarrel which consists of "Says you, says I"; they always weaken an article. Even if you give reasons for your strong language, understatement is usually more desirable.

When you understate something, the reader is aware of what you are saying; his own mind then supplies the rest, which is what you want. But when you overstate something, you deafen the reader. You do not give him time to come to his own conclusion. It is as if you were shouting at him. Observe that on stage-while there are situations in which nothing can subst.i.tute for a scream-in most of the famous dramatic scenes, it is the whispered, simple sentence that gives you chills. When you overstate something, you disarm yourself. A man does not shout when he is sure of his case. When a writer understates what he is saying, what comes across is an overwhelming a.s.surance on his part.

At one point in my article "Requiem for Man,"37 on the anticapitalist papal encyclical on the anticapitalist papal encyclical Populorum Progressio Populorum Progressio ("On the Development of Peoples"), I felt like referring to the Pope as "the abysmal b.a.s.t.a.r.d" or worse, because I felt almost unbearable indignation. Instead, I communicated what I thought by understatement: "Anyone who evades that image [i.e., of life under the system advocated by the encyclical] ... and declares that human effort is not a sufficient reason for a man to keep his own product-may claim any motive but love of humanity." There are circ.u.mstances in which it is proper to use a blatantly pejorative adjective, but they are the exceptions. ("On the Development of Peoples"), I felt like referring to the Pope as "the abysmal b.a.s.t.a.r.d" or worse, because I felt almost unbearable indignation. Instead, I communicated what I thought by understatement: "Anyone who evades that image [i.e., of life under the system advocated by the encyclical] ... and declares that human effort is not a sufficient reason for a man to keep his own product-may claim any motive but love of humanity." There are circ.u.mstances in which it is proper to use a blatantly pejorative adjective, but they are the exceptions.

The same point applies to sarcasm, which should be used sparingly. The general principle is to prepare the ground for what you want to treat sarcastically. Make sure it is clear why you are making a sarcastic remark. Without that context, sarcasm amounts stylistically to the argument from intimidation:38 you "persuade" the reader through intimidation, saying, in effect, "I will not take you seriously if you say A, and I dismiss it sarcastically." But in and of itself, it is of no consequence that you, the author, dismiss something. When you have prepared your ground, however, a touch of sarcasm can be stylistically brilliant. you "persuade" the reader through intimidation, saying, in effect, "I will not take you seriously if you say A, and I dismiss it sarcastically." But in and of itself, it is of no consequence that you, the author, dismiss something. When you have prepared your ground, however, a touch of sarcasm can be stylistically brilliant.

There are some subjects which one can discuss only sarcastically, e.g., the hippies or modern art. There the subject subject gives you the necessary ground. It is a caricature in itself, and therefore you cannot evaluate it except in sarcastic terms (though you can discuss its psychological and philosophical roots seriously). For instance, in my article "The 'Inexplicable Personal Alchemy,' " when I move from the Russian rebels to the American rebels, I am sarcastic from the outset. I write: "America, too, has a vanguard of young rebels, dissenters, and fighters for freedom. Marching down the aisle of a theater, they shout their protest to the world: 'I cannot travel without a pa.s.sport! ... I am not allowed to smoke marijuana! ... I am not allowed to take my clothes off!' " I say that the hippies are "puppets in search of a master" and "exhibitionists who have nothing to exhibit," etc., which are sarcastic metaphors. Yet there was no other way to describe them. gives you the necessary ground. It is a caricature in itself, and therefore you cannot evaluate it except in sarcastic terms (though you can discuss its psychological and philosophical roots seriously). For instance, in my article "The 'Inexplicable Personal Alchemy,' " when I move from the Russian rebels to the American rebels, I am sarcastic from the outset. I write: "America, too, has a vanguard of young rebels, dissenters, and fighters for freedom. Marching down the aisle of a theater, they shout their protest to the world: 'I cannot travel without a pa.s.sport! ... I am not allowed to smoke marijuana! ... I am not allowed to take my clothes off!' " I say that the hippies are "puppets in search of a master" and "exhibitionists who have nothing to exhibit," etc., which are sarcastic metaphors. Yet there was no other way to describe them.

What I say about sarcasm applies to any kind of humor. Humor must must be justified by your content. If you have not let the reader in on what you are laughing at and why, then humor is inappropriate. It becomes a subst.i.tute for giving a reason-again, a form of the argument from intimidation; instead of refuting a position, you dismiss it with humor. be justified by your content. If you have not let the reader in on what you are laughing at and why, then humor is inappropriate. It becomes a subst.i.tute for giving a reason-again, a form of the argument from intimidation; instead of refuting a position, you dismiss it with humor.

There are two broad categories of tone: serious and humorous. Which approach you take depends on your evaluation of your subject-on whether you want to treat it seriously or make fun of it. As a general principle, a theoretical article must be serious. You might might include touches of humor, but only as exceptions. As a basic approach, it would be extremely inappropriate to write a theoretical article in a humorous tone, because you would be laughing at your own material. It is only the middle-range article that offers a wider choice here. include touches of humor, but only as exceptions. As a basic approach, it would be extremely inappropriate to write a theoretical article in a humorous tone, because you would be laughing at your own material. It is only the middle-range article that offers a wider choice here.

In essence, humor is the denial of the importance or metaphysical validity of something. Therefore, the type of humor you use depends on what you are laughing at. If you laugh at something evil, your humor will have a benevolent quality. If you laugh at the good, it will have a malicious quality.

When I say it is proper to laugh at evil, I do not mean all evil. It is improper, under all circ.u.mstances, to write humorously about tragic and painful events or issues-about death, cemeteries, torture chambers, concentration camps, executions, etc. This is called "sick humor," and the designation is correct, because although it is possible to laugh at such things, one should not consider them funny. For example, take comedies about the n.a.z.is. I have a strong aversion to war comedies. War per se per se is bad enough, but war and dictatorship combined are is bad enough, but war and dictatorship combined are a fortiori a fortiori not a subject for comedy. This applies to fiction and nonfiction writing. not a subject for comedy. This applies to fiction and nonfiction writing.

Just as you should not treat tragic or painful evil humorously, neither should you treat an important, good subject humorously. If, for example, with the best intentions in the world, you wrote humorously about the heroic element in man, it would not be a good article-the issue is metaphysically important. Usually, if someone makes fun of heroes, it is not because he wants to glorify them, but because he is against heroism.

As an example of appropriate humor in a nonfiction article, take the pa.s.sage on Hegel in the t.i.tle essay of For the New Intellectual For the New Intellectual.39 Describing Hegel's philosophy, I write that "omniscience about the physical universe ... is to be derived, not from observations of the facts, but from the contemplation of [the] Idea's triple somersaults inside his, Hegel's, mind." The reference to triple somersaults is meant to be light or humorous. I am not denying the seriousness of the subject (the history of philosophy), but I am indicating that I do not take Hegel seriously and that we need not worry about this particular monster. Describing Hegel's philosophy, I write that "omniscience about the physical universe ... is to be derived, not from observations of the facts, but from the contemplation of [the] Idea's triple somersaults inside his, Hegel's, mind." The reference to triple somersaults is meant to be light or humorous. I am not denying the seriousness of the subject (the history of philosophy), but I am indicating that I do not take Hegel seriously and that we need not worry about this particular monster.

As a general conclusion about humor, observe that appropriate humor requires a community of basic premises among those whom you expect to laugh. For instance, if we disapprove of Hegel, and I make a crack about him, it will be funny to you only because your basic estimate of him is the same as mine. But it would not be funny to a Hegelian, and you should keep this in mind. If you write an article intended to persuade religious people that religion is wrong, a humorous approach would be totally wrong-your readers do not share your premises, and your humor will fall flat. In writing about ideas you oppose, use humor only when you know it is based on what your audience considers funny.

Don't #4: #4: Don't use bromides. Bromides are canned integrations. They were good the first time they were used, which is why they became bromides. When writing a first draft, if you need some color and a bromide occurs to you, but you want to continue writing, it is fine to keep it there as a temporary indication of a thought. But do not let it stay in your final version. Don't use bromides. Bromides are canned integrations. They were good the first time they were used, which is why they became bromides. When writing a first draft, if you need some color and a bromide occurs to you, but you want to continue writing, it is fine to keep it there as a temporary indication of a thought. But do not let it stay in your final version.

Bromides defeat themselves. In The The Fountainhead, Fountainhead, Austin h.e.l.ler said that all the houses offered to him were so alike, so similar to what he had seen before, that he could not see them at all. Something too familiar becomes invisible. Similarly, bromides do not add color-they merely wipe out what you want to stress. If in editing you cannot find a colorful touch of your own, omit the color and use straight narrative. Do not leave in bromides. They give an impression of improper imitation. Austin h.e.l.ler said that all the houses offered to him were so alike, so similar to what he had seen before, that he could not see them at all. Something too familiar becomes invisible. Similarly, bromides do not add color-they merely wipe out what you want to stress. If in editing you cannot find a colorful touch of your own, omit the color and use straight narrative. Do not leave in bromides. They give an impression of improper imitation.

There are, of course, exceptions. For example, if you are discussing someone like Hubert Humphrey and want to show that he is imitative or a windbag, then select from his speeches the most bromidic pa.s.sages, provided they are not accidental. If a politician speaks well but occasionally uses a bromide, and you select those exceptions, that is dishonest; but if you are characterizing someone like Humphrey, you have a choice of riches, because everything he says is either obfuscation or a bromide.

Don't #5: #5: Do not use unnecessary synonyms. It was commonly held that a writer should never repeat a given word within a certain number of lines. On this view, if you used the same word twice in close proximity, you had to make a change. This is a grave error. Do not use unnecessary synonyms. It was commonly held that a writer should never repeat a given word within a certain number of lines. On this view, if you used the same word twice in close proximity, you had to make a change. This is a grave error.

The simplest examples of this error are found in some old novels, where the author wants to indicate that the characters are talking: "How do you do?" he said.

"Very well, thank you," she answered.

"I'm glad to hear it," he a.s.serted.

"Oh, are you?" she uttered.

The result is an awkward collection of artificial synonyms. If you want to say "he said" and "she said," just say it. Do not look for unnecessary synonyms.

The same error occurs in nonfiction. For instance, if the word "philosophy" comes up too often, you might be tempted to look for synonyms, e.g., "wisdom," "ideology," "body of thought," "world view." Although it is awkward to use the same word six times in two sentences, the solution is not to subst.i.tute a synonym, but to recast the sentence so as not to need to repeat the word. Often you can simply use a p.r.o.noun, e.g., "it" instead of "philosophy." But if the repet.i.tion of the word is necessary, and reconstructing the sentence leads to unnecessary complications, then simply repeat the word. This will not jump out at the reader if the context requires it.

It is better to repeat a word, even if doing so is slightly obtrusive, than to subst.i.tute an unnatural synonym for the sake of form alone. When you use a synonym, not because you need a different shade of meaning, but strictly to avoid repet.i.tion, the result sounds phony. Moreover, when you change words not for content but for form, the reader gets the impression that you are changing the subject, and the result is confusing. This is particularly true in philosophy, where there are no exact synonyms. For example, "philosophy" does not have quite the same meaning as "world view" or "body of thought." In fact, there are few literal synonyms for any word. A thesaurus usually provides words with not quite identical meanings. In a nonfiction work, particularly on a serious subject, any time you change a word you introduce a slightly different connotation, and the reader will be justified in thinking that you are talking about something else.