The Odd Sublime

For 92 years the Elements of Style has championed clarity and concision in writing. Strunk & White’s little style book is needed more than ever--witness the geyser of gobbledygook emanating from government, academia, and the legal profession, not to mention humble blogs like this one.

But unadorned sentences have a cost. We lose richness because of our preoccupation with paucity, say some writers.

In his review of Stanley Fish’s new book, “How To Write a Sentence and How To Read One,” Adam Haslett joins Stanley Fish in questioning Strunk & White’s foundational premise. The “bias for plain statement” has had a lamentable effect on literary prose.

The form and rhythm of sentences communicate as much meaning as their factual content, whether we're conscious of it or not. In 1863, when Gen. Grant took the city of Vicksburg, Miss., the last hindrance to free passage of Union supplies along the river, President Lincoln wrote in a letter to be read at a public meeting: "The father of waters again goes unvexed to the sea." It's a poem of a sentence, "The father of waters" and "unvexed to the sea" perfectly balanced on the unexpected pivot of "again goes" rather than "goes again," and all in the service of a metaphor that figures the Union as an inevitable force and the Confederacy as a blight on nature, without mentioning either. If cadence had no content, "Union supply lines are now clear" would have the same power.

In his short sentence Lincoln communicated several layers of meaning. It’s unlikely that any politician would speak such words today. "Unvexed to the sea" would be met with blank stares, and "father of waters" would be condemned for its sexism. In the 19th century poetic metaphors could be used unapologetically because they were understood by audiences.

But that was a more literate and courageous time. We may lose the odd sublime, but after wasting many hours puzzling over dense, convoluted memoranda and journal articles, give me Strunk & White any old time.