Hiding the verb

Another rhetorical trick that politicians* use is to de-emphasize a negative via a construction that I call “the hidden verb.” In this construction, the writer converts a verb to a noun or adjective, which disguises the action, which weakens the sentence, which (he hopes) de-emphasizes the negative.

For example, Ruth Kelly (pictured), a British politician, was caught embezzling. To attempt to evade responsibility, she wrote a lame apology that included this sentence: “There was no intention to do anything other than comply with the rules.”

It would have been natural to write, “I never intended to break the rules.” But she hid the verb intended inside the noun intention, and then used the bland verb to be (was). The construction also allowed the embezzler to avoid mentioning the agent: herself. Note also that she avoided using the powerful word break.

The Takeaway: If you are writing about a failure or malfeasance – even if only to deny it – remember that intelligent readers will be especially alert for indications of your candor or lack thereof. Don’t damage your credibility by using a “hidden verb.” Even readers who do not formally know the rules of grammar can often spot this awkward construction. It announces, “Warning: Author Is a Weasel!”

*I mean politicians not in the narrow sense of people who run for office or “work” for the government, but in the wider sense of all professional deceivers, including shyster lawyers, corrupt professors, and corrupt journalists.

Hiding the agent

I have been training business writers for more than 30 years. During those years, I’ve learned a lot about how we learn to write clearly. And I’ve learned a lot about the barriers to learning to write clearly.

The biggest barrier is the ubiquity of deliberately unclear writing. Every day, we read and hear the speciously packaged lies and deceptions of politicians, shyster lawyers, corrupt professors, corrupt journalists, and other professional deceivers. (For the sake of brevity, I will refer to these people collectively as politicians.)

Unlike a politician, you are not trying to deceive people. You’re trying to communicate honestly and clearly. However, you read and hear specious language all day long and are at risk of learning to imitate it. If you doubt this, read (or re-read) Orwell’s famous essay on the imitation of decadent language, “Politics and the English Language.”

So, if you are serious about learning to write clearly, your two most important tasks are: (1) learn to consciously recognize specious writing for what it is; and (2) learn to avoid imitating it.

That is why I devote space to showing you examples of specious writing. For example, in a recent post, I explained how a politician abused “uninhabited clauses” in order to manipulate the members of his audience.

That’s a popular trick. Another popular trick – as I am sure you know – is the abuse of the passive voice to hide an agent.

It is proper to use the passive where the identity of the agent is unknown or irrelevant. For example, if you were a real estate broker showing a house, and you wanted to say when it was built, you could properly say: “This house was built in 1848,” without adding true but irrelevant facts such as, “by Peter Hoyt, who was the town doctor at that time.” In the context of your sentence about the age of the house, the identity of the agent (Peter Hoyt) is irrelevant.

But it is improper to use the passive to hide the agent when his identity is known and relevant; for example, by using phrases such as “Mistakes were made” in order to evade identifying the agent who made the mistakes (or, more probably, committed the crimes). This handy phrase is so popular with politicians that it has a Wikipedia entry.

The Takeaway: When you use the passive, be sure to use it properly. As you edit your work, look critically at every passive-voice verb; does the logic of the sentence call for – or at least tolerate – a passive-voice verb there? If not, change the verb to active voice. And if your passives are proper but frequent,* try to change some to active, to spare your readers; passive voice is more difficult to read than active voice.

*In most types of writing, a frequency higher than 15 percent is probably excessive.

Concise writing is usually clear writing (2)

With few exceptions, concise writing is clear writing. There are two reasons. First, in order to produce concise writing, the writer must choose words and syntax more carefully. The result, almost automatically, is clear writing.

Second, concise writing is more readable, because the reader has fewer words to process. Remember, a reader’s short-term memory can hold only so many words; so, the fewer the words you use to make your point, the more likely will the reader be able to follow you and comprehend your point.

In other words, concise writing is both quicker and easier to read.

Here is an example of wonderfully concise writing. It is a definition of the state, from the introduction of a new book: The Left, The Right, and The State, by Llewellyn H. Rockwell, Jr.:

“It is the group within society that claims for itself the exclusive right to rule everyone under a special set of laws that permit it to do to others what everyone else is rightly prohibited from doing, namely aggressing against person and property.”

It is a near-perfect (or perfect) example of concise writing: that is to say, it could be improved only in minute ways (if at all). Although it defines a complex idea, it is only 43 words long. So far as I can see, every word is needed; remove any word and you weaken the definition.

The Takeaway: Concise writing is usually clear writing. More concisely stated: shorter is usually clearer. When you have produced copy that is pretty clear but you want to make it clearer, try cutting 10 percent of the words. Or, if you are feeling unusually vigorous, try 20 percent. While cutting, you will usually choose clearer words and syntax. (If this is difficult for you, don’t get discouraged: concise writing is one of those skills that develop slowly and steadily over the years.)

Concise writing is usually clear writing (1)

The subjunctive mood (1)

In our continuous efforts to produce clear writing, we need to pay special attention to the inflection of verbs – also known as verb formation and conjugation.

For most of us, the most difficult area of conjugation is mood – especially the subjunctive mood. The most common mistake we make is using the indicative mood when the meaning calls for the subjunctive mood.

For example, in a recent essay about sentiment against the free market, Robert Higgs writes: “Among other things, we must appreciate that the sky is not falling, even if the news media and the politicians talk and act as if it is.” (Emphasis in original.)

He asserts that a condition is true; that is, he asserts that it is true that the sky is not falling. Then he mentions people who appear to be assuming the opposite condition (that the sky is falling). In grammar, a condition contrary to fact should be expressed in the subjunctive mood; the use of the subjunctive mood tells the reader that the writer is saying that the condition is not true.

So, in the example, the writer should have written as if it were.

What is the effect of this error? When the well-educated reader* encounters “as if,” he expects soon to see the subjunctive form were. When instead he sees the indicative form is, he wonders what the writer means by it. After a few moments, he probably guesses that the writer doesn’t mean anything; he is just using the wrong verb form.

By making this mistake, the writer momentarily distracts and confuses the reader. And possibly he irritates the reader and even loses a little of the reader’s confidence.

In speech – especially informal speech – the rules are more relaxed. Most listeners (including the well-educated) now accept the use of the indicative mood in many constructions that in formal writing would call for the subjunctive mood.

The Takeaway: In writing, be careful to use the subjunctive mood where the meaning calls for it. Refresh your knowledge of the subjunctive forms and of the uses of the subjunctive mood; condition contrary to fact is only one of many. For a reference work, I recommend Writing and Thinking, by Norman Foerster and J. M. Steadman, Jr.

*If you write exclusively for dudes, airheads, and other ill-educated readers, you needn’t spend much time or effort on these fine points, because your readers wouldn’t notice them even if their lives depended on it.

The uninhabited clause (3)

In previous posts (1), (2), I have discussed the uninhabited clause: a main clause with a subject that is a physical thing or a concept, as opposed to a person or group of persons.

In everyday, non-technical speech or writing, an uninhabited clause is usually more difficult to understand than an inhabited clause. And an uninhabited clause usually sounds more academic and theoretical than an inhabited clause.

Politicians often use uninhabited clauses in a sneaky way: to insinuate rather than state directly.

For example, here is the last paragraph of a recent speech by Barack Obama:

“Now is the time to confront this challenge [‘climate change,’ which Mr. Obama appears to think is a threat to the human race] once and for all. Delay is no longer an option. Denial is no longer an acceptable response. The stakes are too high. The consequences, too serious. Stopping climate change won’t be easy. It won’t happen overnight. But I promise you this: When I am President, any governor who’s willing to promote clean energy will have a partner in the White House. Any company that’s willing to invest in clean energy will have an ally in Washington. And any nation that’s willing to join the cause of combating climate change will have an ally in the United States of America. Thank you.”

That paragraph consists of eleven sentences with eleven main clauses. The first seven main clauses are uninhabited; the last four are inhabited. (In the last clause, the implied subject is “I” – “I thank you.”)

The uninhabited clauses command the listener (or reader) via insinuation: they do not state the commands directly. They also conceal the authority for the commands and the evidence (if any) that the commands are based on.

For example, consider the first sentence: “Now is the time to confront this challenge once and for all.”

The intelligent reader immediately thinks of several questions: Who says this is a challenge? On what evidence is he saying it? Who says we have to confront it? On what authority? Assuming that we have to confront it, who says we have to confront it now? On what authority? What is the proof that the cost-benefit calculation is more favorable now than it will be later? And who are “we,” anyway? And who says this confrontation will be totally successful, as insinuated by the phrase “once and for all”?

That’s just a start; you can probably think of several additional questions. And each of the next six clauses similarly raises several questions in the mind of an intelligent reader.

To sum up, the uninhabited clause is an ideal construction for insinuation. Politicians love it because it helps them (1) fool unintelligent people into doing what they would refuse to do if they gave the matter a moment’s thought; (2) escape responsibility when the insinuated advice proves wasteful or counterproductive. The politician merely has to say, “Just read my speech again; where did I specifically tell you to do that?”

The Takeaway: If you are not a politician, don’t use a lot of uninhabited clauses: it can make you sound like a politician. If you are a politician, I advise you to stop visiting this blog; it will only continue to infuriate you.

The uninhabited clause (1)
The uninhabited clause (2)