Exhilarating Prose: Cognitions, Contemplations, Insights, Introspections, Lucubrations, Meditations, Musings, Prognostications, Reflections, Reveries & Ruminations on the Process of Writing
180
Exhilarating Prose: Cognitions, Contemplations, Insights, Introspections, Lucubrations, Meditations, Musings, Prognostications, Reflections, Reveries & Ruminations on the Process of Writing
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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781771860383 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Baraka Books |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2015 |
| Pages: | 180 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.30(d) |
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Exilarating Prose
Cognitions, Contemplations, Insights, Introspections, Lucubrations, Editations, Musings, Prognostications, Reflections, Reveries & Ruminations on the Process Of Writing
By Barry Kealey, Cordelia Strube
Baraka Books
Copyright © 2015 Barry Healey & Cordelia StrubeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-77186-042-0
CHAPTER 1
Dead Language – The Speaks
What is it?
Dead language is language that is ... dead. Like the Monty Python parrot, it is deceased, expired, no longer of the living. It litters the cultural landscape. It's un-arousing, leaden, repetitive, and comprised of stagnant words and phrases unable to stimulate the reader.
You cannot create living — breathing — prose with dead language. To snare the reader's attention, you need to replace mirthless, incoherent, and disingenuous words with startling and lucid ones. Sparse, supple, and vivid writing stimulates the reader's imagination. Each word and phrase, each sentence, must be honed to its precise meaning before being deployed — effective prose is uncluttered, containing no tired, needless, bland, or deceptive language which could smother imagery or meaning.
"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."
— Thomas Mann
Conversely, dead language — 'The Speaks': ad-speak, media-speak, techno-speak, medical-speak, valley-girl-speak, art-speak, hip-speak, sports-speak, corporate-speak, government-speak, and hundreds of other speaks — contains clusters of clichéd words and phrases, which endlessly replicate common oral and written syntax, effectively nuking the communication of forceful and original ideas.
"Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket."
— George Orwell
Ad-speak — like "Doublethink" in Orwell's 1984 — is now wholly meaningless (e.g. our local jazz radio station advertises "This commercial-free Sunday is brought to you by ..."). Everywhere in the media we are bombarded with meaningless jargon — it's easy to imagine chimps bouncing on chairs in ad agency cubicles, pounding on keyboards and chanting, "the more you save, the more you buy, the more you buy, the more you save."
Ad agencies insist they practice the 'Art of Persuasion'; but wouldn't the 'Art of Deception' be more accurate? Ad-speak practitioners rely particularly on dead language, using repetitive, clichéd superlatives to describe the merchandise or services they hawk, especially when these items have no intrinsic, or exceptional, value (i.e. selling the "sizzle" and not the steak).
Most corporate advertising is built around vague, suggestive slogans, designed to mislead, and which, when questioned, appear fatuous:
"Making things happen" (like climate change, Toyota?)
"It's good to talk" (do you listen, British Telecom?)
"Things go better with Coke" (what things, Coke, obesity?)
"Fox News – Fair and balanced" (fair to whom, Rupert?)
"Doctors recommend Phillip Morris" (dead doctors?)
"You can be sure of Shell" (sure of what, Shell, oil spills?)
"An army of one" (are you counting on both hands, Pentagon?)
"Think Different" (shouldn't you go first, Apple?)
"Rediscover delicious harmony" (delicious or nutritious, McDonalds?)
Ad-speak is employed to seduce and reassure, using vague non sequiturs presented in rhythmic, inane phrases. Ikea seems to stand alone with its plain and witty, "Screw yourself."
Business-speak (a cousin to ad-speak?) is possibly the greatest purveyor of dead language in our culture (e.g. course descriptions in business school calendars). It utilizes abstract, overworked phrases such as "our tradition of excellence in ..." and "forward-thinking attitudes of our staff," along with "to serve the public," to lull consumers into believing that they're receiving value for money, and to obscure questionable business practices. Would any company that manufactures a viable, useful, and lasting product use dead language to promote its goods or services — if those goods and services were highly regarded?
"Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for the love of it, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for the money."
— Molière
"I grew up on a farm. I know what it means to restore the land," says Garrett, a youthful "environmental coordinator" for ConocoPhillips, standing in a forest in a (full-page) magazine ad. Garrett is being disingenuous. His phlegmatic statement is intended to imply that the damage caused by the oil industry's Canadian tar-sands operations — a forty-metre-deep gouge in northern Alberta's boreal forest the size of the state of Delaware, considered by ecologists and scientists the most environmentally destructive project on the planet — will be magically restored but doesn't indicate how.
Garrett's knowing "what it means to restore the land" is senseless ad-speak. Oil industry representatives have no idea how to regenerate the boreal forest (unless it knows something the Gaia doesn't); and to cloak their malfeasance, they refer to their decimation of the landscape as "oil sands." If these were truly "oil sands," it would be a simple matter to extract the oil from the sand. As it is, the oil is locked inside tar (or bitumen), and the industry consumes millions of cubic feet of natural gas to heat millions of gallons of fresh water to separate the oil from the tar; hence the appellation "tar sands." The spent water, permeated with toxic chemicals, is then pumped into large depressions called tailings ponds (the size of small lakes), from which it seeps into, and poisons, the watershed.
"The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself."
— Albert Camus
In the same oil-industry-financed campaign (another full-page ad), Megan, a young biologist employed by Devon Energy, squatting in a wetland, tells us that she is "monitoring the plants, soil, and animals." "We know," she says, "what was here before, what's here now, and what we need to do before we leave." What, Megan, what?
Each year, in the form of advertising, millions of dollars are expended on dead language by 'resource' (fossil fuel and mining) industries needing to mask their assault on the natural world. These corporations presume that by presenting Garrett and Megan's handsome, youthful, and educated presence, and their Pollyannaesque comments, they will quell public apprehension, but industry rhetoric — as murky and toxic as a tailings pond — along with rapacious business methods, are to be seen more as weapons of mass destruction.
"Water (the ads further inform us) is an important part of oil and gas production, and as Canada's oil and gas industry grows, so does demand on Canadian water resources." This sentence, cowering on the page, suggests that the oil industry is deeply concerned about the preservation of fresh water — but if so, why are they poisoning so much of it? And why aren't Garrett and Megan informing their lubricious bosses that poisoning millions of gallons of fresh water and decimating our boreal forests for profit are, ultimately, acts not only of greed but of imbecility?
These examples of corporate-speak suggest action where none exists, as in "our team will explore specific environmental goals." The word "explore" — like Megan's use of the word "monitor" — paired with the words "specific" and "goals" is intended to raise expectations that action is being taken; but what? The "monitoring" and "exploring" involve no commitment — nothing is being done to rectify, proscribe or initiate action. The 'team' only explores; the word "specific" is being used to suggest focus but, again, on what? "Our team will explore specific environmental goals," hopes to reassure us that the problem is being dealt with; but if it were, would such pusillanimous words and phrases need to be employed? With multibillions of dollars at stake — and having no idea of how to restore their "Hiroshima" (according to Neil Young) — these (government-subsidized) resource corporations attempt to neuter public opinion by retaining more consultants to conduct further "monitoring" and "exploring," yielding additional reports in dead language. In this way, these ongoing deceptions allow them to continue — unfettered — their destruction of our once pristine landscape.
Corporate-speak is similar to government-speak, both reliant on technology and dead language to nullify access. When was the last time you attempted to contact a large corporation or government agency, and were able to speak with a live human being to obtain the information or service you needed?
Dead language is also prevalent in the medical (doctor-speak), legal (lawyer-speak), and building (archi-speak) professions. Architects, when bidding on new projects, employ abstract phrases in their design proposals to convey an aura of proficiency, but what do the phrases "flexible activity rooms," "needs assessment analysis" and "presentation forums" actually mean? Aren't they 'puff' phrases meant to gull the client? Is a "flexible activity room" the boudoir of a dominatrix? And what would a "presentation forum" look like? How many humans — or Martians — might it hold? Is it likely to contain an "organic simplicity" (as Frank Lloyd Wright once hoped)?
"The problem with so much of today's literature is the clumsiness of its artifice — the conspicuous disparity between what writers are aiming for and what they actually achieve. Theirs is a remarkably crude form of affectation: a prose so repetitive, so elementary in its syntax, and so numbing in its overuse of wordplay that it often demands less concentration than the average "genre" novel. Even today's obscurity is easy, the sort of gibberish that stops all thought dead in its tracks."
— B.R. Myers, A Reader's Manifesto
And what should a "building of excellence" look like? Would it resemble a triangle, a stilted box, or — even stranger — an inexplicable eruption of jagged, irregular-shaped steel and glass pyramids jutting out randomly at all angles, capriciously affixed to a once-elegant, now sadly disfigured, historical edifice? Could there be a symbiotic relationship between the many misshapen structures that litter our urban landscape and architectural design proposals replete with dead prose?
In literature, the rampant use of cliché's (the sign of a dying language) is relentless: "hearts lurching," "hearts pounding" or "pounding hearts," "racing minds and hearts," "leaping / sinking / stopping hearts and lurching stomachs," "breaking into a smile," "pangs of (anything)," "seizing, or lumps in, throats or stomachs, sinking stomachs, and tightening throats" submerge the reader into a quagmire of inane jargon.
The words "smile" and "laugh" (as noun and verb) are written frequently. Why? With so many other words available to describe these basic human responses, their repetition seems indicative of a barren or lazy imagination. Do the perpetrators of cliché's think that we will find comfort in familiar words and phrases rendered senseless by overuse? Or do they fear that new words and forceful expressions might intimidate or confuse the reader?
Dead language kills thought and stifles originality. To convey meaning, and to avoid smothering the willing reader in a miasma of turgid prose, stories need to be told with penetrating simplicity.
"Those whom books will hurt will not be proof against events. If some books are deemed more baneful and their sale forbid, how, then, with deadlier facts, not dreams of doting men? Events, not books, should be forbid."
— Herman Melville
The canny writer should know that the reader is not dull-witted; yet here in the Canadian literary landscape, an organization exists that funds authors to write novels on the condition that they avoid using 'unfamiliar' words (e.g. "muted"), which might baffle the reader. This covert form of censorship, reminiscent of Orwell's "Newspeak" in 1984, demonstrates ignorance of the reading process. With any well-written work, the reader will not necessarily comprehend every single word, but if the story and the writing are engaging, he or she will bypass words which they might be seeing for the first time and will come across again, eventually surmising their meaning from the context (see the John Holt anecdote in The Stillness of Reading, page 157).
Isn't this how an enlightened populace is created: citizens acquiring an ample vocabulary and extensive knowledge through indiscriminate reading — a process formerly known as a 'liberal education' ('une tête bien faite')? Reading is an inoculation against dead language. Done with abandon, it can introduce the reader to unique word possibilities and new ideas, and offer a refuge from life's vagaries.
"By far the most important thing to master is the use of metaphor. This is one thing that cannot be learnt from anyone else, and it is the mark of great natural ability, for the ability of metaphor implies a perception of resemblances."
— Artistotle
Given that dead language — in its paper state — eradicates thousands of hectares of trees each year, shouldn't we call for a referendum to abolish it? Wouldn't our political representatives be eager to legislate the demise of the "politically correct" and terminologically opaque? Or not? Might we risk exposing ourselves to the following?
The facts of the matter are these: There is no question that the issue of exanimate language is urgent and needs to be addressed at this time. With strategic planning and prudent procedures, our government, committed to staying the course in this era of global fiscal restraint, will manage this issue decisively as we move forward in building a diverse, sustainable, and prosperous society for generations to come. The Government of Canada intends to initiate legislation with clear deadlines and fiscal responsibility which, when enacted, will bring forth wholesome verbal and written family prose, forming a profound language that will assist us to steward public expenditure, stimulate economic growth, protect our environment, celebrate our diverse aboriginal cultures, and support the valiant men and women of our armed forces. Most importantly, it will enable us to assist all Canadians to be themselves.
No. We cannot rely on these 'right honourable' men and women, the improvident politicians, who have neither the wit nor the imagination to rid themselves of dead rhetoric. It will be up to us to banish the 'speaks', honing every thought to its intended meaning in clear, vibrant, and plucky sentences.
CHAPTER 2Forms of Prose
The Undead Novel
Periodically, some wag writes an obituary for the novel, joyously reminiscing about its delights and mourning its demise. This ritual, which has transpired every twenty years or so over the past century (in these technologically driven times the occurrence seems almost daily), and which usually creates mild hysteria in what remains of the literary media.
"What preserves the voices of the great authors from one century to the next is not the recording device (the clay tablet, the scroll, the codex, the book, the computer, the iPad) but the force of imagination and the power of expression. It is the strength of the words themselves, not their product placement, that invites the play of mind and induces a change of heart ... I listen to anguished publishers tell sad stories about the disappearance of books and the death of Western civilization, about bookstores selling cat toys and teddy bears, but I don't find myself moved to tears ... The renders of garments mistake the container for the thing contained, the book for the words, the iPod for the music. The questions in hand have to do with where the profit, not the meaning, is to be found, who collects what tolls from which streams of revenue ... I know of no way out of what is the maze of the eternal present and the prison of self except with a string of words."
— Lewis Lapham, Figures of Speech, Harper's
But has the novel died? Walk into any large bookstore, and you will note browsers skulking among the tables, eyeing the books and bending down to whisper, "ain't you dead yet?" Yet, if the novel were dead, who could be writing and publishing these piles of prose?
Alex Barris, a writer who spent long years higgling with wily TV producers and publishers, told us once that "publishers drink the blood of authors from their skulls." On the other hand, the publishers we know feel that they put enormous effort into publishing a book on behalf of the writer who receives, they believe, more than a fair return for their efforts. These opposing views indicate to us that the novel lives. For if it were dead, wouldn't all writers and publishers be on the street selling timeshares in Cancun condos, or panhandling? If the novel had died, wouldn't it mean that storytelling — an obsessive human activity — had perished as well? And yet, writers still write, publishers still publish, and storytelling flourishes. So the novel is not quite dead. It's been breathing since Don Quixote, and so continues.
In The Art of the Novel, Milan Kundera illustrates how the modern (European) novel evolved — from Miguel de Cervantes in the early seventeenth century to Franz Kafka in the twentieth century.
"The first great novel, Don Quixote, teaches how the spiritual greatness, the boldness, the helpfulness, of one of the noblest of men, Don Quixote, are completely devoid of counsel and do not contain the slightest scintilla of wisdom."
— Walter Benjamin , The Storyteller: Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov
In Don Quixote, he suggests that the expanse of the setting — "Don Quixote set off into a world that opened wide before him" — opened up the sense of an endless landscape to the reader.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Exilarating Prose by Barry Kealey, Cordelia Strube. Copyright © 2015 Barry Healey & Cordelia Strube. Excerpted by permission of Baraka Books.
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