The Pause That Refreshes
[a comma divertissement]
A question/request arrived the other day via the virtual mailbag:
Would you address at some point whether commas may be correctly used simply for tempo or emphasis? I.e., placed by the writer at their own discretion, for their own reasons. I have read (more than once) the directives about commas in DE, but they are all technical, objective rules. Happy to follow them, but is a writer at less than laureate level allowed to throw in a comma for purposes of rhythm, or is this in the category of Don’t Try This At Home? When and if you are so inclined, please.
Happy to oblige, first expressing my gratitude of the acknowledgment of the dozen-odd pages on commas to be perused in the acknowledged DE, available wherever better (and presumably considerably worse) books are sold.
Now to the matter at hand.
Of all the punctuation marks, commas are the most loosey-goosey:
Sometimes commas convey heavy meaning, as in what I refer to as “the ‘only’ comma,” named (by me) in honor of the typical copyeditorial query in response to encountering in a manuscript something along the lines of “his sister Madge”: “AU: Only sister? If so, comma.” So far as I’m concerned, this is a load-bearing comma, inarguably necessary.1
Sometimes commas are series commas, which I also view as mandatory, particularly when I encounter, as I just have, a sentence like—from Thornton Wilder’s dazzling The Bridge of San Luis Rey, which I’m reading now for the first time since high school, when it both flew over my head (which, catch-22, I was not smart enough then to know it was doing) and bored me silly (which I distinctly recall)—this:
Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the table and in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads and excited whispers left the room.
At the very least this would do well to be, at least so far as I’m concerned:
Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the table, and in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads, and excited whispers left the room.
You might also, I suppose, go with:
Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the table, and, in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads, and excited whispers, left the room.
But even I, overfond of commas as I am, think that that might be a bit much.2
I also note, as I like to, that comma usage has evolved since the days of Jane Austen’s
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
which, by modern standards, needs neither of its commas:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Though if you absolutely must, you could, I suppose, go with:
It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Actually, no you can’t go with that. “A truth universally acknowledged” is a unit of thought; I don’t want to see it broken up. But I’m not backspacing over the suggestion because I want you to join me in the thought process that goes on here. Good?
“She’s telling you where you’d need to breathe!” is the defense one occasionally encounters of Miss Austen’s old-school commas, to which I can only concede that, sure, that’s where you’d need to breathe if Emily Brontë were trying to choke you to death.
Fashions of all sorts change—that’s what makes them fashions—and we’ve come a long way from the Wild West Show of commas, dashes, double dashes, and colons3 sprinkled about the way that Charles Dickens and his ilk were wont to sprinkle them about. Yes, I love to read that grand old stuff and revel in the punctuational brio, but it’s not 1852 anymore.
As, then, to my correspondent’s query about discretionary commas, I turn, once again, to my favorite comma in all of literature, Shirley Jackson’s comma of doom at the conclusion of the first paragraph of The Haunting of Hill House:
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
As I have happily noted many, many, many times, that ultimate comma is not grammatically justifiable, and it’s certainly not necessary, but I’m always happy to see it. It is a thoughtful comma, an intentional comma, a scary comma, a portentous comma, and I love it dearly. I would not have written it myself, but neither would I, had I been Miss Jackson’s copy editor, have attempted to delete it. (I might have queried it.4)
But do I think that that’s the sort of comma you should attempt? It’s hard to say. Each mandatory comma is mandatory in the same way; each discretionary comma must be assessed in the context of its overall sentence, so I’d have to see, explicitly and specifically, what you’re up to (and not just a single sentence, I’d probably want paragraphs, or chapters) before I could say “Yes, that comma’s a good idea” or “No, that comma is heinous.” As with Potter Stewart and pornography, I like to think that I know a good comma when I see one, or a bad one.5
And that comma, that one just above (“a good comma when I see one, or a bad one”): That’s an ear comma. I put it there not particularly because I needed it but because I wanted it. As I would not put a comma in the sentence I just now wrote and make it “I put it there not particularly because I needed it, but because I wanted it.” Because not only do I not want it, but, like, who needs it?
I also note: I am extremely fussy about my commas, among other things, and always, on the verge of publishing anything, I go carefully over each and every one of the little tadpoles to make sure I want it and need it.6 So if you want to dig in: Go back over this piece and see if you especially like or especially dislike any of the commas or the rest of the punctuation.7
I pull up from the vaults this additional acknowledgment (mine, that is) of discretionary commas:
“I tend to visualize the action of novels, and hear it.”
This is an example of what my beloved Edmund Morris always referred to as a “luftpause comma,” a midpredicate comma that is not at all grammatically called for and yet does a little something.
Such commas should be used wisely and sparingly. (Even Edmund, one of the most appropriately self-confident writers I’ve ever known, could be persuaded that he’d gone to the well once too often.)
My point is that in many if not most cases you want your commas—all your punctuation, really—to be invisible. Punctuation supports sound and meaning, and it aids in clarity, but I don’t, as a rule, think that it should be constantly calling attention to itself.
On the other hand, because there’s invariably an other hand, I’m always going to be in favor of writers reaching into their bag of tricks labeled Mindful Playfulness to see what they can pull out of it.
It’s a matter of taste, it’s a matter of judgment, it’s a matter of technique—style, even—that can be cultivated only with practice and increasing self-confidence.
Listen to yourself—mind your own ear—but, perhaps, also be suspicious of yourself and of any penchant, as well I know, for self-indulgence.
And: This is what other readers—besides yourself, that is—and particularly copy editors—are there for: to tell you when you’ve gone too far. (Or, I suppose, not far enough.)
I hope this helps.
Thank you for reading, for being here. If you’re a subscriber, thank you for that. And if you’re a paying subscriber—an entirely voluntary thing to be, to be sure, with no greater practical benefit than to be able to comment in the comments (except on the extremely rare occasions these days when I leave the comments open to all and even sundry)—I offer extra gratitude: It makes a difference, on any number of levels.
Also: Do please feel free to offer up questions for future missives, lest I be constantly reduced to whining about typos in The New York Times, which is fun, sure, but eventually palls.
Sallie sends her best regards.
Also inarguably necessary, so far as I’m concerned: the vocative comma, or comma of direct address. It’s fine for you to text “Hi Mom”; in dialogue in prose of any but the absolutely most informal sort one expects to see, and should see, “Hi, Mom,” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” “Get away from me, Bob,” etc. Some writers balk at the initial comma in, for instance, “But, Henry, you can’t be serious.” I balk at their balking.
Actually, if I’m being honest (a phrase I abhor, and I use it here solely to call attention to my abhorrence), I rather prefer it.
Though what I might also prefer might be:
Camila seized the note the moment it was done, pushed a coin along the table, and left the room in a last flurry of black lace, scarlet beads, and excited whispers.
This, however, is an entirely different conversation, to be had on an entirely different day.
“Marley was dead: to begin with.” Top that.
I absolutely would have queried it—something along the lines of “AU: comma intentional? not perhaps necessary”—because it would have been my job to query it, and when SJ responded to my query with a terse “stet,” I would have nodded happily and gone about my business.
It occurred to me this morning that that Hill House comma is an ancestor of the comma one often sees in “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” and that comparison is perhaps horrible to contemplate, but I share it here to make you feel horrible about it too. Misery, meet company.
Though I will bet that if I had a copy editor for these missives that wasn’t me, I’d have far fewer commas.
Or do you prefer “Go back over this piece and see if you especially like, or especially dislike, any of the punctuation”?
One of my Criticism Workshop teachers, probably Richard Gilman, would occasionally note that one of us had lingered too long at, or needed to stop by, the Comma Store. In that class we either read our own papers aloud for collective shaming or the instructor would do so, generally initiating the shaming. But it was a great way to learn to hear commas.
Oh, yes! That Haunting of Hill House comma is very scary. It calls attention to "walks alone." Brilliant and chilling.