Indeed repetition can be irksome - especially in poetry where the real estate is scanty - UNLESS it’s used for emphasis … but I wonder if it matters for longer works where heft often seems more important than context.
It’s an interesting question, and perhaps other readers here will speak up, because I can only read the way I read, which is certainly not the way most people read, but: I’m certainly aware in less than adroitly (oh, Benjamin, stop already) edited prose when a writer is repeating themself pointlessly (or what I see as pointlessly). To be sure that’s often in the midst of tons of other bad habits being played out on the page.
I think that part of the problem - at least for prose - is that novels have grown to gargantuan sizes. This leads to a certain sloppiness. I recall Dylan Thomas once stating that if he wrote one good line a day, he was successful.
When I last packed my books, I noticed the difference in heft between not just books from the 1900s to today, but also books in series that started years ago to today (Elizabeth George's Lynley books, for example). I blame fewer trained editors and JK Rowling.
That said, the first thing I learned as a junior advertising copywriter is that people don’t read the copy unless attracted by the picture. And, sadly, very few memorize the material … no matter how enticing.
Speaking of writers’ tics, here’s my latest source of teeth-gritting, eye-rolling, head-slapping annoyance (and it’s doubly annoying because I don’t know what to call it): Writers, especially screenwriters, can’t string together two or three sentences without using (again, what IS this called) a format I can only describe as “The noun, it verbs.” You know, like so: “The evidence, it shows that…” and “The Senator, she said…” and “The sentence, it pains me.” My partner and I first noticed that the brilliant Rachel Maddow had become enamored of this sentence construction to the point where she could no longer utter a straightforward sentence like “The Senator said….” Then I realized that the fiction series I was reading was littered (and using it so often is a form of littering rather than festooning) with the same affected indulgence. Once or twice in a novel for emphasis? Sweet. But over and over and over? I don’t think my chagrin comes from my preference for directness; I love Byzantine sentences with scads of parenthetical asides and ancillary and explanatory clauses (and you are a master at these) delicately balanced with subject–verb simplicity. Unfortunately, now I cringe every time I hear/read “The noun, it verbs.” And I STILL don’t know what to call it. Can you enlighten me?
I have, I must confess, never noticed this construction, but now we can be sure that I’m going to start encountering it everywhere, and it will certainly drive me round the bend too!
Also, I think it’s at least possible that once one of us notices something—decides to notice it, even—it will present itself repeatedly.
But: I’m on the lookout, and possibly I’ll be on the warpath too!
(And I have no idea what to call it, besides: bad.)
Any and all joking aside, the first time I saw Wizard with the Kansas scenes in the intended sepia tones (not b/w), the transition into Technicolor made me gasp. (I’ll say no more in case you’ve never seen it that way.)
It's funny you say this, because as I wrote my comment, I was transported back to the very spot in our family's living room when I first saw it. Being the youngest, I'm sure I would have been delegated to the floor. I had the same reaction. Not sure it was a gasp, but I clearly remember my mouth agape and my eyes wide open. Thank you for clarifying the sepia. You're right. Now my brain will correctly recollect it in those warmer monochromatic tones. Wow, thanks again.
That crucial shot, with the interior of the Gales’ farmhouse painted in sepia and Miss Garland’s stand-in costumed monochromatically (and in shadow), makes for a great moment when the door opens onto Munchkinland ablaze in color. Brilliant movie magic.
Yes! My father and I built (constructed?) a Heathkit color tv in time for one of the first color broadcasts and it was stunning. Not to mention color made the WWW much scarier.
You forgot that you walked to school in the dark! (both ways, obviously)
My teacher in sixth grade made us underline the first word in every sentence when we wrote short stories. If we used a word more than twice, we had to rework the sentence. I hated it at the time but it was great training.
That’s an interesting experiment. I’m not sure I’d want to apply it broadly and regularly to writing, but I can certainly appreciate how it makes one (reasonably) self-conscious about what one is writing and how.
I, too, had to trudge five miles in the snow to school, uphill in both directions, before my editorial career begin. And, yes, that ability to remember where on a page I read something came in very handy, although I suspect my auditory memory paid the price for it.
It's always been interesting to us that the screenwriters of the 1939 Wizard made Auntie Em and Uncle Henry much more sympathetic and less forbidding. "And now — since I'm a Christian woman, I can't say it!" 😆
I knew precisely which quote I'd find for footnote 3, and jumped straight to it so I could read it again because it does bear re-reading. (Rereading? Both look wrong to me, and I know the trend is to tighten out hyphens, but I think, visually, my eye prefers the space of the hyphen interrupting the 'rere.')
And revisiting a passage I love does bear fruit. I hadn't before noticed that Baum gives us the balm of describing Em's more colourful days, thereby reinforcing the current grayness by contrast, while simultaneously giving space between the repeated "grays" and alleviating the oppressiveness. The reinforcement and relief work together. Fascinating.
"Garden variety": I rarely use it. I had a colleague who used "common garden variety" frequently in speech. My very strong preferene is for "common or garden" instead, though I rarely use it either. I consider it to be a more elegant expression of the same meaning, but perhaps a bit too British sounding..
Footnote 2: I have never been tempted to confuse consciousness with conscience; is this common?
Indeed repetition can be irksome - especially in poetry where the real estate is scanty - UNLESS it’s used for emphasis … but I wonder if it matters for longer works where heft often seems more important than context.
It’s an interesting question, and perhaps other readers here will speak up, because I can only read the way I read, which is certainly not the way most people read, but: I’m certainly aware in less than adroitly (oh, Benjamin, stop already) edited prose when a writer is repeating themself pointlessly (or what I see as pointlessly). To be sure that’s often in the midst of tons of other bad habits being played out on the page.
I think that part of the problem - at least for prose - is that novels have grown to gargantuan sizes. This leads to a certain sloppiness. I recall Dylan Thomas once stating that if he wrote one good line a day, he was successful.
When I last packed my books, I noticed the difference in heft between not just books from the 1900s to today, but also books in series that started years ago to today (Elizabeth George's Lynley books, for example). I blame fewer trained editors and JK Rowling.
With a shoutout to David Foster Wallace—his enormous “Infinite Jest” - 1000+ pages long! - seemed to spark a “revolution” …
That said, the first thing I learned as a junior advertising copywriter is that people don’t read the copy unless attracted by the picture. And, sadly, very few memorize the material … no matter how enticing.
Speaking of writers’ tics, here’s my latest source of teeth-gritting, eye-rolling, head-slapping annoyance (and it’s doubly annoying because I don’t know what to call it): Writers, especially screenwriters, can’t string together two or three sentences without using (again, what IS this called) a format I can only describe as “The noun, it verbs.” You know, like so: “The evidence, it shows that…” and “The Senator, she said…” and “The sentence, it pains me.” My partner and I first noticed that the brilliant Rachel Maddow had become enamored of this sentence construction to the point where she could no longer utter a straightforward sentence like “The Senator said….” Then I realized that the fiction series I was reading was littered (and using it so often is a form of littering rather than festooning) with the same affected indulgence. Once or twice in a novel for emphasis? Sweet. But over and over and over? I don’t think my chagrin comes from my preference for directness; I love Byzantine sentences with scads of parenthetical asides and ancillary and explanatory clauses (and you are a master at these) delicately balanced with subject–verb simplicity. Unfortunately, now I cringe every time I hear/read “The noun, it verbs.” And I STILL don’t know what to call it. Can you enlighten me?
I have, I must confess, never noticed this construction, but now we can be sure that I’m going to start encountering it everywhere, and it will certainly drive me round the bend too!
Also, I think it’s at least possible that once one of us notices something—decides to notice it, even—it will present itself repeatedly.
But: I’m on the lookout, and possibly I’ll be on the warpath too!
(And I have no idea what to call it, besides: bad.)
See as well "The stupid! It burns!" Sometimes rendered as "The stupidity, it burns."
I apologize for the inevitable consequence (your imminent round-the-bendiness).
My mother’s sisters used this construction when they complained: “My son, he never calls me. My daughter, she never writes. My life, it’s a misery.”
They were from Albany.
This letter is longer than it should be because I didn’t have the time to make it shorter
I resemble this remark.
It appears Victor Fleming was deeply affected by Baum’s opening words. Here I thought he just couldn’t afford that much Technicolor.
Any and all joking aside, the first time I saw Wizard with the Kansas scenes in the intended sepia tones (not b/w), the transition into Technicolor made me gasp. (I’ll say no more in case you’ve never seen it that way.)
It's funny you say this, because as I wrote my comment, I was transported back to the very spot in our family's living room when I first saw it. Being the youngest, I'm sure I would have been delegated to the floor. I had the same reaction. Not sure it was a gasp, but I clearly remember my mouth agape and my eyes wide open. Thank you for clarifying the sepia. You're right. Now my brain will correctly recollect it in those warmer monochromatic tones. Wow, thanks again.
That crucial shot, with the interior of the Gales’ farmhouse painted in sepia and Miss Garland’s stand-in costumed monochromatically (and in shadow), makes for a great moment when the door opens onto Munchkinland ablaze in color. Brilliant movie magic.
Yes! My father and I built (constructed?) a Heathkit color tv in time for one of the first color broadcasts and it was stunning. Not to mention color made the WWW much scarier.
I think I meant relegated. That burst of color, I’m sure, is etched forever in the minds of countless people. It has to be. What a moment.
You forgot that you walked to school in the dark! (both ways, obviously)
My teacher in sixth grade made us underline the first word in every sentence when we wrote short stories. If we used a word more than twice, we had to rework the sentence. I hated it at the time but it was great training.
That’s an interesting experiment. I’m not sure I’d want to apply it broadly and regularly to writing, but I can certainly appreciate how it makes one (reasonably) self-conscious about what one is writing and how.
Also, it was sixth grade on stories that were only a few pages long. I'm not sure it would be as effective with anything longer.
One is lucky if the go-to word or phrase one overuses unaware is not already otherwise a cliché among others writing in a similar vein! Lucky I say.
I, too, had to trudge five miles in the snow to school, uphill in both directions, before my editorial career begin. And, yes, that ability to remember where on a page I read something came in very handy, although I suspect my auditory memory paid the price for it.
It's always been interesting to us that the screenwriters of the 1939 Wizard made Auntie Em and Uncle Henry much more sympathetic and less forbidding. "And now — since I'm a Christian woman, I can't say it!" 😆
I knew precisely which quote I'd find for footnote 3, and jumped straight to it so I could read it again because it does bear re-reading. (Rereading? Both look wrong to me, and I know the trend is to tighten out hyphens, but I think, visually, my eye prefers the space of the hyphen interrupting the 'rere.')
And revisiting a passage I love does bear fruit. I hadn't before noticed that Baum gives us the balm of describing Em's more colourful days, thereby reinforcing the current grayness by contrast, while simultaneously giving space between the repeated "grays" and alleviating the oppressiveness. The reinforcement and relief work together. Fascinating.
For a writer not generally known for the quality of his writing, as opposed to his way with a story, he could be a lovely writer.
(I would go with “rereading,” and perhaps save a hyphen for something less well recognized without one.)
"Garden variety": I rarely use it. I had a colleague who used "common garden variety" frequently in speech. My very strong preferene is for "common or garden" instead, though I rarely use it either. I consider it to be a more elegant expression of the same meaning, but perhaps a bit too British sounding..
Footnote 2: I have never been tempted to confuse consciousness with conscience; is this common?
Thank you for this .