We must
It is in writing that eloquence has its roots and foundations, it is writing that provides that holy of holies where the wealth of oratory is stored, and whence it is produced to meet the demands of sudden emergencies. It is of the first importance that we should develop such strength as will not faint under the toil of forensic strife nor be exhausted by continual use.
For it is an ordinance of nature that nothing great can be achieved in a moment, and that all the fairest tasks are attended with difficulty, while on births as well she has imposed this law, that the larger the animal, the longer should be the period of gestation. There are, however, two questions which present themselves in this connexion, namely, what should be our method and what the subjects on which we write, and I propose to treat them in this order.
At first, our pen must be slow yet sure: we must search for what is best
and refuse to give a joyful welcome to every thought the moment that it
presents itself; we must first criticise the fruits of our imagination,
and then, once approved, arrange them with care. For we must select both
thoughts and words and weigh them one by one. This done,
In order to do this with the utmost care, we must frequently revise what we have just written. For beside the fact that thus we secure a better connexion between what follows and what precedes, the warmth of thought which has cooled down while we were writing is revived anew, and gathers fresh impetus from going over the ground again. We may compare this protess with what occurs in jumping matches. The competitors take a longer run and go at full speed to clear the distance which they aim at covering; similarly, in throwing the javelin, we draw back our arms, and in archery pull back the bow-string to propel the shaft.
At times, however, we may spread our sails before the favouring breeze, but we must beware that this indulgence does not lead us into error. For we love all the offspring of our thought at the moment of their birth; were that not so, we should never commit them to writing. But we must give them a critical revision, and go carefully over any passage where we have reason to regard our fluency with suspicion.
It is thus, we are told, that Sallust wrote, and certainly his works give clear evidence of the labour which he expended on them. Again, we learn from Varius that Virgil composed but a very small number of verses every day.
It is true that with orators the case is somewhat different, and it is
for this reason that I enjoin such slowness of speed and such anxious
care at the outset. For the first aim which we must fix in our minds and
insist on carrying into execution
write quickly and you will never write well, write well and you will soon write quickly. But it is just when we have acquired this facility that we must pause awhile to look ahead and, if I may use the metaphor, curb the horses that would run away with us. This will not delay our progress so much as lend us fresh vigour. For I do not think that those who have acquired a certain power in writing should be condemned to the barren pains of false self-criticism.
How can anyone fulfil his duties as an advocate if he wastes his time in putting unnecessary finish on each portion of his pleadings? There are some who are never satisfied. They wish to change everything they have written and to put it in other words. They are a diffident folk, and deserve but ill of their own talents, who think it a mark of precision to cast obstacles in the way of their own writing.
Nor is it easy to say which are the most serious offenders, those who
are satisfied with everything or those who are satisfied with nothing
that they write. For it is of common occurrence with young men, however
talented they may be, to waste their gifts by superfluous elaboration,
and to sink into silence through an excessive desire to speak well. I
remember in this connexion a story that Julius Secundus, my
contemporary, and, as is well known, my very dear friend, a man with
remarkable powers of eloquence, but
Julius Florus, the leading orator of Gaul, for it was there that he practised, a man eloquent as but few have ever been, and worthy of his nephew. He once noticed that Secundus, who was still a student, was looking depressed, and asked him the meaning of his frowns. The youth made no concealment of the reason:
he had been working for three days, and had been unable, in spite of all
his efforts, to devise an exordium for the theme which he had been given
to write, with the result that he was not only vexed over his immediate
difficulty, but had lost all hope of future success. Florus smiled and
said, Do you really want to speak better than you
can?
There lies the truth of the whole matter. We must aim at speaking as well as we can, but must not try to speak better than our nature will permit. For to make any real advance we need study, not selfaccusation. And it is not merely practice that will enable us to write at greater length and with increased fluency, although doubtless practice is most important. We need judgement as well. So long as we do not he back with eyes turned up to the ceiling, trying to fire our imagination by muttering to ourselves, in the hope that something will present itself, but turn our thoughts to consider what the circumstances of the case demand, what suits the characters involved, what is the nature of the occasion and the temper of the judge, we shall acquire the power of writing by rational means. It is thus that nature herself bids us begin and pursue our studies once well begun.
For most points are of a definite character and, if we keep our eyes
open,
On the other hand, there is a fault which is precisely the opposite of this, into which those fall who insist on first making a rapid draft of their subject with the utmost speed of which their pen is capable, and write in the heat and impulse of the moment. They call this their rough copy. They then revise what they have written, and arrange their hasty outpourings. But while the words and the rhythm may be corrected, the matter is still marked by the superficiality resulting from the speed with which it was thrown together.
The more correct method is, therefore, to exercise care from the very beginning, and to form the work from the outset in such a manner that it merely requires to be chiselled into shape, not fashioned anew. Sometimes, however, we must follow the stream of our emotions, since their warmth will give us more than any diligence can secure.
The condemnation which I have passed on such carelessness in writing
will make it pretty clear what my views are on the luxury of dictation
which is now so fashionable. For, when we write, however great our
speed, the fact that the hand cannot follow the rapidity of our thoughts
gives us time to think,
As a result our language tends not merely to be haphazard and formless, but in our desire to produce a continuous flow we let slip positive improprieties of diction, which show neither the precision of the writer nor the impetuosity of the speaker. Again, if the amanuensis is a slow writer, or lacking in intelligence, he becomes a stumbling-block, our speed is checked, and the thread of our ideas is interrupted by the delay or even perhaps by the loss of temper to which it gives rise.
Moreover, the gestures which accompany strong feeling, and sometimes
even serve to stimulate the mind, the waving of the hand, the
contraction of the brow, the occasional striking of forehead or side,
and those which Persius
all these become
ridiculous, unless we are alone, Finally, Thumps not the desk nor
smacks of bitten nails,