Stunning Sentences

I've discovered a little gem of a book that I recommend to any writer working on sentence craft. Stunning Sentences (Norton, 1999), one of a series on writing and editing by Bruce Ross-Larson, packs an entire course on style into 100 pages. There's little theory or rule-based grammar here; Ross does what I do--he finds effective sentences and shows what the writer has done to make them work. His examples come from journalism and business, where readers expect not pretty metaphors but hard information and expert opinion efficiently articulated. 

Writers can probably benefit most by taking small, regular bites from this book. Nine chapters cover broad syntactical techniques for improving sentences--Dramatic Flourishes and Elegant Repetitions, e.g--further broken into specific writing devices. I've admired many of these techniques before, but often with a vague, holistic appreciation; I can't always parse out exactly what a writer is doing that I might be able to add to my bag of tricks. Ross-Larson catalogues, defines, and illustrates rhetorical devices with perfect lucidity. Discussion is brief and concise, and examples abound. Here are a few of my favorites:

Inversion of conventional sentence order "to shift a word or group of words to the emphatic opening slot and to add cadence":

    Only in the virtual world of her fiction could Austen assert control. (Kevin Barry)

Repetition, here of prepositions:

    She has an instinctive politician's gift of connecting--to women, to men, to old people, to teenagers, to the guy in the Staten Island deli who took her order the other weekend after she finished a five-mile run. (Eisabeth Bumiller)  (And isn't the length of the final prep phrase, after the other short ones, perfect?)

Pairs or trios of short sentences:

   Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth. (Vladimir Nabokov)

Ross-Larson's work is now part of Clearwriter, an online writing and editing service. After briefly sampling one of the online classes, I suggest you save a lot of money the old-fashioned way: just buy this little book on amazon. (OMG. I just called amazon old-fashioned because it sells actual books!)  

Revisiting Salinger

I picked up Franny and Zooey at the library yesterday, just in case I'm not reading enough books right now (the usual half dozen), and hadn't finished the first page when I found this gem: 

[It was] the weekend of the Yale game. Of the twenty-some young men who were waiting at the station for their dates to arrive on the ten-fifty-two, no more than six or seven were out on the cold, open platform. The rest were standing around in hatless, smoky little groups of twos and threes and fours inside the heated waiting room, talking in voices that, almost without exception, sounded collegiately dogmatic, as though each young man, in his strident, controversial turn, was clearing up, once and for all, some highly controversial issue, one that the outside, non-matriculating world had been bungling, provocatively or not, for centuries. 

I could do with fewer numbers here, but isn’t that last sentence wonderful? Doesn’t he just nail the know-it-all twenty-year-old we’ve all been?

Back with more soon…

A Master of Repetition

My first encounter with the writing of Gary D. Schmidt has left me awed and a bit envious. In Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, he creates a gripping coming-of-age story, a tale of love and injustice that can change the lives of the children who read it. And he does it with enviable artistry, much like Cat Weatherill, whose work I wrote about earlier.

For a review of the story, see my book blog. Here I’ll focus on his style.

Schmidt is a master of repetition and the rhythm it creates. I love the way he uses both repetition and variation in this passage. Each successive sentence grows longer as it echoes and expands the one before it. 

“Pitch one,” she said.

          So he did. The first was too high and fell short. The second was too long and lobbed over her head. But…the third went somewhere in the middle, and Lizzie, Lizzie of the steady eye and firm hand, Lizzie Bright Griffin swung and hit the stone dead center. In fact, every time Turner pitched her a stone within shouting distance, she hit it dead center—no matter how high the arch, no matter how straight the descent.

          Here Schmidt uses a series of three phrases to provide information about a character. The repetition of words and the vivid, concrete language convey in one sentence the work of a lifetime.  

[Turner] took Reverend Griffin’s hand. He wasn’t surprised that it was strong, but he was surprised by how he felt every scar that ridged the man’s palm, every cut drawn through by a quick and sharp pull on a fishline, every slit opened by an accidental knife.

(I’m reminded of Robert Newton Peck’s advice in Secrets of Successful Fiction to always show our readers the hands of our characters.)

At one point Turner needs desperately to see Lizzie, and he goes to the edge of the river  in hopes of finding her. Through repetition and use of numbers Schmidt captures perfectly the thoughts and actions of a child forced to wait as his hopes diminish. And don’t miss that wonderful metaphor at the end of the paragraph:

He waited to see if Lizzie might come around the point. He counted waves and told himself that he would leave after twenty-five had tumbled in. After that, he skipped rocks and told himself he would leave after he skipped one seven times. (He did it with the eleventh stone.) After that, he counted fifty gulls—except they came almost all at once. And then, with nothing left to count, Turner climbed back up the ledges, with a pile of loneliness on his back as heavy as nightfall.

Rick Bragg's World of Boys

In Rick Bragg's third memoir, The Prince of Frogtown, he returns to the Alabama town of his youth to learn about his father, a legendary drunk who abandoned the family early but was mythologized by the locals. We also learn about Rick’s grandfather and Rick’s own testosterone-laden boyhood, as well as the very different twenty-first century childhood of the stepson he is struggling to relate to.

Listening to the audio version, narrated by Bragg with his, well, hillbilly accent and colorful dialect  enhances the vivid writing. I had to get the Kindle version as well so I could grab the great sentences (almost every one). Herewith a few for your enjoyment:

This was our place. From a running start, I could leap clear across it, heart like a piston, arms flailing for distance, legs like shock absorbers as I finally, finally touched down. This is where I learned to take a punch and not cry, how to dodge a rock, sharpen a knife, cuss, and spit. Here, with decrepit cowboy hats and oil-stained BAMA caps on our burr heads and the gravel of the streambed sifting through our toes, we daydreamed about Corvettes we would drive, wondered if we would all die in Vietnam and where that was, and solemnly divined why you should never, ever pee on an electric fence.

It took something as powerful as that, as girls, to tug me away from this tribe of sunburned little boys, to scatter us from this place of double-dog dares, Blow Pops, Cherry Bombs, Indian burns, chicken fights, and giggling, half-wit choruses of “Bald-Headed Man from China.” Maybe we should have nailed up a sign—NO GIRLS ALLOWED—and lived out our lives here, to fight mean bulls from the safe side of a barbed-wire fence with a cape cut from a red tank top, and duel to the death with swords sliced off a weeping willow tree. I don’t know what kind of man I turned out to be, but I was good at being a boy.

There would have been hangover in his eyes and in the tremble of his hands around his cigarette, but it wasn’t anything a little taste of liquor wouldn’t heal, once he had shaken free of his wife and kids like a man slipping out of a set of too-tight Sunday clothes.

It was a good world for drunks then, and a bad world for everybody else. A man could rise up in his drunkard’s raiment at night, dripping poison, and pull it off in the day like dirty clothes.

My attention span, in romance, was that of a tick on a hot rock.

Bragg’s vivid, grass-roots imagery and poet’s sense of rhythm remind me of Woody Guthrie's autobiography, Bound for Glory. Early in my career teaching high school English, I was ordered to teach literary style to my sixteen-year-olds. It was the first time I had been asked to articulate the principles of style, and I was stymied at first. Somehow I happened to open Bound for Glory, a book of such stylistic and story-telling power that I immediately ordered it for my classes and had a wonderful time teaching it. Time to go back and enjoy it again.

Images of life and death

Thanks to Ken Ledford for sending this gorgeous opening passage from The God Of Small Things by Arundhati Roy:

"May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst. Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun."

We start with a macro view that sets the time, place, weather, and mood. Then Roy's camera zooms in on specific images: crows gorging, "dustgreen" trees, overripe fruit, flies drunk on the abundant life--and then, abruptly, dead. I love the assonance of "dissolute bluebottles" "fatly baffled" and the echo of "stun" and "sun." And I like the way Roy varies her sentence length--some are snapshots, some movie scenes. 

I listened to the audio version of this book when it came out, and I had trouble following it. The more poetic a writer's style is, the more I need to see it with my eyes. 

Sunset, Moonrise

Anyone who has read Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides, or even just seen the movie, will remember the scene where Lila Wingo first shows her children the simultaneous sunset and moonrise over the marshes. Conroy is sometimes guilty of overwriting, but here I think his language is as breathtaking as the natural beauty he captures.

"The new gold of moon astonishing and ascendent, the depleted gold of sunset extinguishing itself in the long westward slide, it was the old dance of days in the Carolina marshes, the breathtaking death of days before the eyes of children, until the sun vanished, its final signature a ribbon of bullion strung across the tops of water oaks. The moon then rose quickly, rose like a bird from the water, from the trees, from the islands, and climbed straight up—gold, then yellow, then pale yellow, pale silver, silver-bright, then something miraculous, immaculate, and beyond silver, a color native only to southern nights."

The first sentence balances parallel phrases in imitation of the sun and moon, then moves through layers of description that mirror the sun's descent. In the second sentence, the cadence of "from" phrases and gradations of color lift us up with the moonrise. Every time I read this I feel I have witnessed two miracles: one of nature, the other of art.

When you just can't stop reading

From the opening of Mark Richard's House of Prayer No. 2: A Writer's Journey Home:

 "SAY YOU HAVE A 'SPECIAL CHILD,' which in the South means one between Down’s and dyslexic. Birth him with his father away on Army maneuvers along East Texas bayous. Give him his only visitor in the military hospital his father’s father, a sometime railroad man, sometime hired gun for Huey Long with a Louisiana Special Police badge. Take the infant to Manhattan, Kansas, in winter, where the only visitor is a Chinese peeping tom, little yellow face in the windows during the cold nights. Further frighten the mother, age twenty, with the child’s convulsions. . . . Move the family to Kirbyville, Texas, where the father cruises timber in the big woods. Fill the back porch with things the father brings home: raccoons, lost bird dogs, stacks of saws, and machetes. Give the child a sandbox to play in, in which scorpions build nests. Let the mother cut the grass and run over rattlesnakes, shredding them all over the yard. Make the mother cry and miss her mother."

It had been a long time since I'd read a book in a single day, but Richard's (pronounced Ri-SHARD) memoir grabbed me and refused to let go. It's beautifully written in many ways, but what gives it its narrative power is the unusual use of second person. Instead of I, Richard uses you, a risky choice made famous by Jay McInerney in Bright Lights, Big City. In the paragraph above, he turns the opening into a cadenced set of orders, almost military in tone. Though not literally directed at the readers, they nevertheless compel our attention.

Most of the narration isn't in the imperative mode, but the hypnotic effect of the repeated you is always present:

"You are lost at sea in New York City, headphones on, Bible tract in your back pocket, the seafaring novel roaring in your head, the heaving concrete, headlong black foaming ocean, a pitched deck where men hold on for life in the shadows, a Master somewhere on the upper deck, unseen but seeing, seeing you, no urgency, no destination, no end to the night, you sail under reefed sail, a stranger pulls you by your collar from stepping in front of an express bus on Fifty-seventh Street."

This sentence, with its piled-up, rhythmic phrases and its stream-of-conscious immediacy, doesn't need second person to be powerful. It would work well with the more conventional I or he. But all those you's reach out for us. We become the subject of the story. And when you're watching a life you never knew you had unfold on the pages you hold in your hands, you find it hard to walk away.

The power of three, not to mention the bdelygmia

I've been meaning to look closely at the language of Barack Obama's speeches. Richard Nordquist beat me to it in his ever-fascinating About.com column on all things linguistic. In his analysis of Obama's rhetoric, he focuses on the President's use of tricolons--series of three items.

Don't visit Nordquist's site unless you have hours to take delight in his collection of rhetorical devices (unpronounceable Greek names like bdelygmia offered at no charge), examples of great writing from the classical to the contemporary (the metaphors of Dr. Gregory House, for example), practical advice, and humor.

In the tribe of the sentence watchers

"Some people are bird watchers, others are celebrity watchers; still others are flora and fauna watchers. I belong to the tribe of sentence watchers. Some appreciate fine art; others appreciate fine wines. I appreciate fine sentences. I am always on the lookout for sentences that take your breath away, for sentences that make you say, 'Isn’t that something?' or 'What a sentence!'” 

"Alone a word is just a word, a part of speech clustered in a category; it looks over at other words it would like to have a relationship with (it’s almost a dating situation) but has no way of connecting with them. And then a verb shows up, providing a way of linking up noun to adjective, and suddenly you have a sentence, a proposition, a little world. 'Beautiful Joan sighed.' 'John was angry.' 'I am proud.' 'Crucial decisions await'."

from How to Write a Sentence: And How to Read One by Stanley Fish

Go here for Entertainment Weekly reader ideas of great sentences. It's a motley collection, punctuated by the kind of outraged comments I stopped teaching eighth grade to get away from. But there are a few sentences worth reading.

A better collection is here. Number 8 gets my vote, maybe because I hadn't heard it before.

Dash away, all!

Back when I wrote twenty-page letters on lilac-scented stationery—yes, I’m that old—a friend pointed out that I used more dashes than periods. Dashes still pepper my informal writing—see the previous sentence—oops, I can’t stop!--because they enable us to capture the irregular ebb and flow of ordinary conversation with all its starts and stops and interruptions and about-faces.

Dickens knew this when he gave Esther Summerson her voice in Bleak House: “It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other birthdays—none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one another—there were none on mine.” If Dickens were writing today, he’d probably use but’s or periods instead, but I like the dashes—they highlight the contrast between the other girls’ lives and Esther’s. She continues to define herself by what she is not, set off by dashes: “I was brought up, from my earliest remembrances—like some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming—by my godmother.”

When the words just won't come out of your mouth

"Metaphor conditions our interpretations of the stock market and, through advertising, it surreptitiously infiltrates our purchasing decisions." 

This sentence from James Geary's I is an Other, an exploration of metaphor, stopped me cold, but not because it was beautiful. The writing had been smooth until I got here, but suddenly I felt as if I'd stepped off a paved road into knee-deep mud. I looked back at the sentence to see why.

It wasn't that I had trouble understanding the meaning, but rather that the words, even when read silently, did not want to come out of my mouth. Too many long words? Too many s sounds? Three repetitions of the unlovely syllable "tions" followed by a "tious''? For all of the above, this sentence failed the read-aloud test for me--a test all good writing must pass. Every piece of writing has a unique voice, one we hear even when we're reading silently.

I'm happy to report that the clunky sentence wasn't typical of Geary's style, which is mostly clear and fluid and sometimes rises above the quotidian. Isn't that a great word?  "Metaphor," says Geary, "slips a pin into the quotidian." Here I like the contrast of short, simple words--no modifiers--with the four-syllable Latinate quotidian. The subtle assonance of the short-i sound (slips, into, quotidian) adds some music. The pin, as Geary explained in the previous sentence, stands for a prick of sensation. He goes on: "By mixing the foreign with the familiar, the marvelous with the mundane, metaphor makes the world sting and tingle." Three pairs of well-chosen words (foreign and familiar, marvelous and mundane, sting and tingle) use sound effects to make their point beautifully. All is forgiven.

How NOT to write a sentence

This spoof of the style of one of my least favorite political figures (go ahead, guess!) arrived on a birthday card:

"A birthday is a time, another notch in the road, another fork on the table to where you're progressing into some kind of state where a distant shore's advancin' and callin' you up higher, and mostly it's just all about staying the same while you change into even more of who you are! And cake and candles totally honor that, oh you betcha!"

For entertainment value, sometimes bad writing is the best writing!

Sentence Structure that Reinforces Meaning

If the upcoming "Jeopardy" match between humans and a computer named Watson is on your calendar, you might also enjoy Brian Christian’s article “Mind vs. Machine” in the March issue of The Atlantic. Here’s a sentence of his that’s not only thought-provoking but also a pleasure to read:


“The story of the 21st century will be, in part, the story of the drawing and redrawing of these battle lines, the story of Homo sapiens trying to stake a claim on shifting ground, flanked by beast and machine, pinned between meat and math.”

Christian’s theme is the competition between human and human-invented artificial intelligence, and his main tool, the pairing or repeating of words and sounds, echoes that theme:

• “the story of…, the story of”

• “drawing and redrawing”

• “beast and machine” (with assonance)

• “meat and math” (with alliteration)

• the final two parallel phrases, each a participle followed by a prep phrase with a compound object.

Christian’s skillful sentence construction eloquently reinforces his meaning without calling attention to itself. Bravo!

A beautiful style laughing at itself

If you read enough writing magazines and books, you'll quickly become sick of the terms "literary novel" and  "literary style." What exactly makes a writer's style literary? And if it's not literary, what is it?

I have my own tentative answer: we might call a style literary when it is as important to the writer (and maybe to the reader) as the content is; when it not only conveys the writer's meaning but is artful in itself; at its best, when it is so original that it constitutes the writer's signature.

Literary technique can, of course, be abused. The annual Bad Writing Contest (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/2010.htm) showcases writers who are skilled enough to turn "literary" writing on its ear (speaking of bad metaphors). My latest favorite writer, Joseph Caldwell, should be given the Grand Prize for his hilarious parody of "beautiful" writing in The Pig Did It, in which a pompous but lovelorn writing teacher (of course) has come to Ireland to grieve:

“His stretch of beach would be deserted. His solitude would be inviolate, his loneliness unobserved and unremarked except by the sea itself. There would, of course, be gulls, there would be curlews. He would hear their shrieks and watch the curve of their spread wings riding a current of air so rarefied that only a feather could find it. Perhaps there would be cormorants and, if he was lucky, a lone ship set against the horizon. There would be squalls and storms, crashing water, and thundering clouds. Lightning would crack the sky. Winds would lash the cliffs and—again, if he was lucky—rocks would be riven and great stones thrown into the sea. Then he, Aaron McCloud, would walk the shore unperturbed, his solitude, his loneliness, a proud and grieving dismissal of all that might intrude on his newly won sorrows.”

I won't enumerate the techniques used here except the one that creates the humor: the stretching of each image or sound effect just far enough that it screams--and we are screaming with laughter. That Caldwell is a master of literary writing is apparent even while we're laughing at his joke. I'll read one of his serious novels next.

For more on The Pig Did It, including another great passage, go to: http://bookwomanjanreviews.blogspot.com/2011/01/pig-did-it-by-joseph-caldwell.html

Great Writers Make It Look So Easy

My friend John Bruns is a retired engineer who is only now finding his true calling as a writer. It’s a joy to witness his excitement and exuberance as he creates an ever-expanding cast of characters for the novel he is writing. John has a way of tossing words onto a page without apparent effort, and then using them to produce sentences both understated and brilliant. I love his opening passage:

“Into the warren of cubicles at the Pasadena Messenger, into the monkey house of telephones and keyboards and aggravated people wanders Cap Riley, who has worked there seven years but still seems a little lost. He matches his cubicle, or perhaps his cubicle matches him: disheveled, coffee-stained, a step or two slower than the prevailing pace of things. A round, bearded man, he is twenty pounds overweight, going gray, eyes mild and heavy-lidded behind steel-rimmed glasses. Cap's cubicle is also overweight….”

John’s writing style never shouts; it maintains the same even, temperate tone as his voice does. So it’s easy to miss the things he does to make his sentences more interesting. Inverting normal word order, for one. Instead of the usual who-what-where opener, John starts with a pile of prep phrases that tell us quickly where we are and what it’s like there. Into the middle of the scene, and the sentence, comes our non-hero, Cap Riley. The placement of the verb “wanders” before the subject tells us that Cap is reluctant to enter even before we read that he’s “lost.”

In the second sentence, John evokes a smile by using a type of repetition the Greeks called a chiasmus:  echoing a phrase with its opposite: "He matches his cubicle, or perhaps his cubicle matches him." The descriptors that follow go from a single word, “disheveled,” to two to a dozen, a pattern that gets our attention and moves us forward. The third sentence opens with an appositive phrase, “a round, bearded man,” rather then the less interesting “he is” that many writers would have started with.

John’s varied sentence structure provides the scaffolding for the words he uses to draw the picture of Cap Riley and his office. Every word contributes to the effect. I can find a “say-nothing” word to cut in almost every sentence I read (except possibly my own, not for lack of need), but in this paragraph I find none. It’s a deceptively ordinary piece of writing that turns out to be perfect.

Was the writing as easy as he makes it look? Not exactly, says John. "I revise a lot, but a lot of it is unconscious. As you learn to write, you hear the music."

John Grisham: Style and Substance

Ray Wilkerson, a student in one of my "In Search of" classes, sent this sentence from John Grisham's latest novel, The Confession:

"Sunday.  What had been probable on Thursday, even likelier on Friday, and virtually certain on Saturday became the numbing truth during the night, so that on Sunday morning the country awoke to the sensational reality that an innocent man had been executed."

Ray's comment: "Grisham is known for his simplicity in writing style and his storytelling abilities. These two sentences are vintage Grisham. The first one-word sentence, 'Sunday,' tells the reader exactly what point in time it is. There is no ambiguity. The next sentence simply, thoroughly and powerfully brings the reader all the way through the events of the past three days, from speculation to absolute.  All of the different clashes of storylines and characters have culminated and collided at this point with this result - an innocent young man was executed for a crime he had not committed."

Thanks, Ray, for such a good example of a straightforward style that delivers its content so effectively.

He says potato, I say potahto

My husband, reading an article in Men's Journal about trekking across Greenland, asked what I thought of  these sentences:
"There is undeniable poetry in the violent and chaotic expression of nature's forces. The drift galloping over the ice resonates of Valkyries from a wild avant-garde ballet. Backlit by the sun's low rays, the sheet of liquid smoke glows like a cloudscape time-lapse photograph. And what could be seen as a frigid and threatening environment turns into an ethereal dance: delicate, evocative, and graceful."

Individual phrases caught my ear. I liked the liquid smoke image, I told him, and the word cloudscape, and the ethereal dance. Maybe not the Valkyries. What did he think? "I lost the story in the words," he said. "I wanted to know what happened to the trekkers, and all that description got in my way."

When I looked closely at the passage, I had to agree that it was overdone. The landscape is a ballet, a photograph, and, again, a dance. Modifiers trip over each other: "cloudscape time-lapse photograph" is hard enough to say (too many accented syllables),  harder to process quickly since words that are usually nouns turn out to be used here as adjectives. And the word "resonate" should, in my humble opinion, be retired; it must be exhausted from overuse. Editing this passage would bring out its beauty. As St. Exupery said, "A designer knows he has achieved perfection not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."

But the bigger point I want to make here is the widely varying preferences of readers. What strikes me as poetic, worth a second read, strikes Ray as obfuscation. Most people read for only content; they want to know what happens next, period. Some, like Ray, will occasionally appreciate a well crafted sentence, but it's not what they need or look for. For a few, like me, a memorable style (of which there are innumerable types, not just poetic, of course) is the sine qua non of the books we call great. You say potato, I say potahto. Aren't we lucky to have books for every kind of taste?

"The English Language Knocking Your Socks Off"

“Agatha Christie mysteries we read for their plots, Sherlock Holmes stories we return to for their gaslight and hansom-cab coziness, but the very best writers we love for the sound of their sentences, the shiver of pleasure delivered by unexpected words and astonishing turns of phrase, by the way their language makes us feel glad to be alive. You don't pick up James Joyce's "Ulysses" because you want to learn about the events in Dublin on June 16, 1904; you don't read Hunter S. Thompson because you want to find out about the nightlife in Las Vegas. What Joyce and Thompson offer is simply the glorious experience of the English language knocking your socks off.”


Michael Dirda, "A master from Mississippi," The Washington Post, 12/23/10