Windrip’s universities

In the new United States of Berzelius “Buzz” Windrip, scores of small private colleges are shut down, and state schools are “absorbed” into “central” universities. No Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, or Hebrew allowed. Philosophy and other subjects are taught only with new textbooks written under government supervision. As for modern languages and literature:


Sinclair Lewis, It Can’t Happen Here (1931).

At the university where I taught for thirty years, there is now talk of doing away with foreign-language study and philosophy (and much else). And “so-called ‘literature’” has become an increasingly peripheral element in English studies, with reading and writing about literary works no longer a part of the first-year composition sequence. One branding-minded faculty member has suggested that each of the university’s colleges pick some specialty and “market the hell out of it.” A claim to be a university, however, requires very different kinds of commitments.

Quit

The New York Times reports that even one cigarette a day is bad for your health:

A person who habitually smokes just one cigarette a day is nine times as likely to die from lung cancer as a nonsmoker, and even if he or she quits at age 50, still has a 44 percent increased risk of premature death.

It would be especially awful to smoke just one cigarette a day and die from a smoking-related illness, no? Quit.

Related reading
All OCA cigarette posts (Pinboard)

[Four or five cigarettes a day was my habit, many years ago.]

Ann Patchett’s favorite bookstores

The novelist and bookstore co-owner Ann Patchett writes in The New York Times about her favorite bookstores. I am happy to see the Corner Bookstore and Three Lives & Company among her recommendations. Great inventory and friendly booksellers.

Related reading
All OCA bookstore posts (Pinboard)

Lambuth serendipity

Bryan Garner’s Usage Tip of the Day today includes a passage from The Golden Book on Writing:

Writing too largely in abstract terms is one of the worst and most wide-spread of literary faults. It sounds learned; it saves the writer from having to use his eyes and ears; and it makes slovenly thinking possible because it does not require definiteness.

A related post
The other little book

A David Lambuth sampler

David Lambuth appears not to have been an especially prolific scholar. But he was an excellent writer. Here are two samples of his prose:

Every good novel is autobiography. Spiritual autobiography, not factual. That the characters are not to be identified nor the events of the story duplicated in the writer’s life is no matter. Beyond such externals we have to penetrate. When we have done that, we discover that what gives a book life is the veracity with which expresses some inner drama through which the writer has passed, the intimacy with which it renders that never-ending process by which the individual adjusts himself to the world around him. The story itself may be realism; it maybe romance; it may be high fantasy: it is again no matter. A man’s vision of life may have many phases and it may express itself in many forms, but without the individual vision, all forms fall short of that communicable vitality which we call art.

Now “The Ordeal of Richard Feverel” is quite peculiarly the record of such a vision and the record of the process by which the vision was achieved.

The first paragraphs of the introduction to George Meredith’s The Ordeal of Richard Feverel (New York: Macmillan, 1926).

*

In speaking of the strange work of words and metaphors in poetry, Frost himself has used the word “displacement.” At first it seems an awkward term. Then its rightness begins to grow. As we read his own poetry at its high moments, suddenly there envelops us, as it were, an awareness of having stepped into another world of an other and somehow older reality. A moment ago and we were ‘here’; now ‘there’ and ‘here’ have fallen together into a different order of space. We have been transported into the mystery which is the heart of man. It is the magic of the fourth dimension. Revolve a simple cube upon its axis and suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, a new world is born, time and space fuse.

Other poets have spoken — wisely, courageously, poignantly — about living. At its greatest, the speech of Robert Frost is not about living — it is living. This is a strange power, and in it resides the majesty of the man. Not to have felt this is not to have known his stature.

The final paragraphs of the foreword to W. B. Shubrick Clymer and Charles R. Green’s Robert Frost: A Bibliography (Amherst,MA: Jones Library, 1958).

A related post
The other little book

[Just two details that I like: the smartness of ending the the single-sentence paragraph with achieved, not vision, and the inventive image of a cube becoming a sphere.]

The other little book

David Lambuth et al. The Golden Book on Writing. Foreword by Budd Schulberg. New York. Viking Press. 1964. xiv + 81 pages.

I first encountered The Golden Book on Writing by way of a sentence quoted in Bryan Garner’s Garner’s Modern English Usage:

The habit of beginning statements with the impersonal and usually vague there is or there are shoves the really significant verb into subordinate place instead of letting it stand vigorously on its own feet.

A title that begins with “The Golden Book” suggests something written for children. But that sentence isn’t kid stuff. The writing is lively and nicely colloquial, suggesting the voice of a teacher who can convey ideas with plainspoken energy: “shoves”! I had to find out more about David Lambuth and his book.

It dates not from 1964 but from 1923. The original title: On Writing. David Lambuth (1879–1948), a professor (and, in 1923, chair) of English at Dartmouth, wrote the book with unspecified contributions from four Dartmouth colleagues: Hewette E. Joyce, Benfield Pressey, Anton A. Raven, and Kenneth Allen Robinson (Lambuth’s son-in-law). The five were writing for their students; their book (or pamphlet, 50 pages, never copyrighted) was distributed in-house for six years before disappearing. (It was preceded by joint efforts in 1920 and 1921, each titled A Handbook of Composition. The 1921 version ran 44 pages.) In 1963, S. Heagan Bayles, a Dartmouth alumnus and Lambuth student, reprinted On Writing for use in his advertising agency, adding a chapter on business communication by the writer (and one-time ad man) Walter O’Meara. In 1964 Viking Press released a trade edition, titled The Golden Book on Writing, with a foreword by Budd Schulberg, another Lambuth student. The book was well received: Time praised it; in a New York Times review, J. Donald Adams called it “the best brief handbook on writing I have seen.” Take that, Elements of Style. Penguin reprinted The Golden Book in 1976 and 1996. It is now out of print.


[The “little book,” 1959 edition, and William Strunk Jr. Click for a larger book.]


[The Golden Book, 1964 edition, and David Lambuth, as he appeared in a 1934 film of Darmouth personalities. Click for a larger book.]

This story of publication and rediscovery recalls, of course, the story of The Elements of Style, another in-house effort rediscovered by a former student, revised and reissued with additional material decades after its first publication. Viking’s book design seems to invite comparison to The Elements; a 1964 advertisement for The Golden Book refers to it twice as “little,” recalling the well-known characterization of The Elements as “the little book.” Like William Strunk Jr., Lambuth appears to have been something of a character. Strunk though was a dapper pedagogue (“Omit needless words!”). Lambuth was a more glamorous figure: white suit and shoes, black cape and beret, pince-nez, beard, cigar. He was friends with Robert Frost. Lambuth’s scholarly productivity appears modest: a Master's thesis on pre-Raphaelite poetry (1901), several letters and essays in newspapers and magazines, editorial work with the Far East Review and Missionary Review, an introduction to an edition of a George Meredith novel (1925), a foreword to a Frost bibliography (1937). And imagine: a department chair working with colleagues on a handbook for their students. It was a more spacious time.

Lambuth and his colleagues (hereafter I will let the name Lambuth stand for all five writers) created a brilliant short guide to writing everyday prose. Like any book of writing instruction, it’s a mixed bag: cursory discussions of organization, paragraphs, punctuation, letter writing, and style, and extended discussions of sentences and words. (O’Meara’s chapter on business writing emphasizes planning, revision, and the avoidance of businessese.) Lambuth is a refreshingly direct and unpretentious writer, suspicious of rules and impatient with taxonomy (the very stuff of a twenty-first-century handbook). Consider these excerpts:

Nobody can lay down rules for anybody else’s writing.

Nobody has ever yet learned how to write well by memorizing rules or trying consciously to write by them.

There is nothing hard and fast about paragraph structure — and never was.

It would be only pedantry to list here the varieties of subordinate clauses and their shifting shades of meaning. The proper handling of clauses doesn’t depend on a knowledge of their names.

The man who writes with one eye on the textbook of rhetoric, or one half of his brain trying to remember rules, is like the man who can’t tell whether to take off his hat or to use his fork or his spoon until he has remembered what was said on page 74 or 135 of some so-called “Book of Etiquette.”¹

[T]rying to imitate another’s style is much the same thing as trying to disguise one’s identity behind a papier-mâché mask that looks like Bernard Shaw or G. K. Chesterton. It might be amusing for a fancy dress ball, but only a lunatic would attempt to go about that way in ordinary life.

The breezy wit is engaging, but It’s what Lambuth says about sentences and words that gives The Golden Book its real value. He presents a strikingly modern conception of the sentence: “A sentence is only a sort of moving picture of thought.” To make the picture move, make an agent its subject, keep subject and verb close together, place elements in a logical order (arranged by time, cause and effect, or order of importance), and bear in mind that a sentence’s points of greatest emphasis are its beginning and end. But again, no rule is absolute. Lambuth trusts the undergraduate reader to catch the wit in these sentences:

The well-known advice against ending a sentence with a preposition is valid only against unimportant prepositions. In certain cases a preposition is the most emphatic word to end a sentence with.

In his discussion of words, Lambuth advocates plainness, knowing that students often think otherwise:

As far as possible a writer should write in the very words in which he does his thinking. These are usually simple, homely words. To translate such words into what is too often considered “literary” language results in sacrificing directness, lessening individuality — the greatest of all literary virtues — smudging out the color, and often obscuring even the sense.

The best rule for writing — as well as for speaking — is to always use the simplest words that will accurately convey your thought.

If a sentence is a moving picture, it’s nouns and verbs that make it move:

Nouns and verbs are the bones and sinews of speech. Nouns build up the bony structure of the sentence, verbs produce motion.

And Lambuth recognizes the inanity of elegant variation, which leads, he says, to “inelegant results.”² He goes so far as to suggest that the student writer emulate Flaubert: “There is rarely more than one right word to express an idea exactly. See that you get that one right word.” Or more colloquially: “If you have a nail to hit, hit it on the head.” The only way to develop good aim is by reading:

The adequate vocabulary and the feeling for this good usage and idiom which are so essential to good writing can be acquired only by wide and intelligent reading. And in no other way whatsoever.

Use your eyes and ears. Think. Read . . . read . . . and still read.

Lambuth’s discussion of misused words and phrases is less persnickety than Strunk and White’s, focusing more on undebatable error (it’s for its) and too-colloquial phrasing (anywheres for anywhere). Lambuth is more flexible than Strunk and White, recognizing, for instance, that none is sometimes plural, something that White didn’t concede until the 1972 edition of The Elements of Style. Other bits of Lambuth guidance — to write, for instance, “He stayed at home,” not “He stayed home” — are better left in 1923. The Golden Book goes off the rails just once, in a five-and-a-half-page discussion of will and shall, would and should, ending in an admission that judging which word is right is “often difficult.” Whoever was riding that hobbyhorse should have been thrown off.

The great strength of The Golden Book is its presentation of the sentence as the key element in teaching writing. Lambuth’s exposition of his idea of the sentence makes Strunk and White’s assortment of dos and don’ts look unwieldy by comparison. But The Elements still rules: it’s Amazon’s best-selling book in three categories (Grammar, Reference, and Writing Skills), and it’s the most often assigned book listed at The Open Syllabus Project. As for The Golden Book on Writing: it’s exceedingly scarce. AbeBooks and Alibris list only 44 and 38 copies of The Golden Book for sale, at least some of which must be the same copies. The WorldCat shows copies at fewer than 500 libraries. The Open Syllabus Project shows the book on a single syllabus.

E. B. White described Strunk’s 1918 Elements as containing “rich deposits of gold.” To my mind, David Lambuth’s book has more substantial deposits (as befits its title) and deserves to be better known. Get the little book — I mean, the other little book, while there are still copies to be had.

¹ Here and elsewhere, Lambuth’s androcentric diction grates. But he was writing for Dartmouth students. The school began admitting women as students in 1972.

² The term “elegant variation” suggests that Lambuth had read the Fowler brothers’ The King’s English (1908).

Details of Lambuth’s life come from Schulberg’s foreword, a New York Times obituary (August 24, 1948), and time spent poking around the WorldCat.


[David Lambuth, from the jacket of the 1964 hardcover. Photographer unidentified. No date. Click for a larger view.]

Related posts
A David Lambuth sampler
The Elements of Style, one more time
A review of Ben Yagoda’s Hot to Not Write Bad
A review of Christopher Lasch’s Plain Style
A review of Stanley Fish’s How to Write a Sentence

“This Week in Hate”

The second installment of a new New York Times feature: “This Week in Hate.”

The De Palma-Dunning-Kruger effect

From the Taxi episode “The Ten Percent Solution,“ first aired January 7, 1981. Louie De Palma (Danny DeVito) to Tony Banta (Tony Danza):

“Banta, sometimes I wish you were smarter, just so you’d know how dumb you are.”

Almost nineteen years before the 1999 paper that introduced the Dunning-Kruger effect, Louie (or, really, the episode’s writer, Pat Allee) was on the right track.

Related reading
All OCA Dunning-Kruger posts

Canned Heat punchline

Spotted in the fog of late-night reruns: the Bob Newhart Show episode “Here’s Looking at You, Kid,” first aired September 20, 1975. Howard Borden (Bill Daily) explains to his fiancée Ellen Hartley (Pat Finley) that he always plays “As Time Goes By” when he irons:

“I have thirteen different versions, one for each shirt. Would you like to hear a Les Paul and Mary Ford, or Canned Heat?”

I suppose the joke is meant to suggest Howard’s devotion to Ellen and his eccentric musical taste. The joke drew little laughter from the studio audience, for whom the name Canned Heat might have recalled “Going Up the Country” and little else. In 1975, the band was in hard times, not for the first time and not for the last.

In 1972, the Canned Heat album Future Blues made an appearance in a Brady Bunch episode.

Related reading
All OCA Canned Heat posts (Pinboard)

[Canned Heat never recorded “As Time Goes By.” Les Paul and Mary Ford? I don’t know.]

From an old notebook

Rachel, six, trick or treating:

“We went to some really old people last year, but they gave us a lot of candy.”

And: “If you give drugs to kids, you can go to jail.”

And: “They were strangers, but the candy they gave us was really good.”

And when she remarked that there weren’t kids in the cars that we saw and I then said that maybe they were grown-ups out and about doing grown-up things: “Yeah, they’re out of things.”

Ben, at home, wanted “a drink of candy” and then took one Skittle from a package of Skittles.

Also from an old notebook
Alfalfa, Ted Berrigan, Jack Kerouac, metaphors : Alfred Appel Jr. on twentieth-century art and literature : Balloons, poetry, teachers : Barney : Beauty and the Beast and kid talk : Eleanor Roosevelt : John Ashbery and Kenneth Koch : Plato, Shirley Temple, vulgarity, wisdom, Stan Laurel : Snow White, Betty Aberlin, kid talk : Square dancing, poetry, criticism, slang