One measure of how good the writing is is how little effort it requires for the reader to track what’s going on. For example, I am not an absolute believer in standard punctuation at all times, but one thing that’s often a big shock to my students is that punctuation isn’t merely a matter of pacing or how you would read something out loud. These marks are, in fact, cues to the reader for how very quickly to organize the various phrases and clauses of the sentence so the sentence as a whole makes sense.
I believe psycholinguists, as part of neuro-science, spend . . . I mean, they hook little sensors up to readers’ eyes and study this stuff. I don’t know much about that, but I do know that when you’re not punctuating effectively for your genre, or when you fail to supply sufficient transitions, you are upping the amount of effort the reader has to make in order . . . forget appreciate . . . simply to understand what it is that you are communicating. My own guess is that at just about the point where that amount— the amount of time that you’re spending on a sentence, the amount of effort— becomes conscious, when you are conscious that this is hard, is the time when college students’ papers begin getting marked down by the prof. Right?
Nobody. Understands. Punctuation
First, let’s look at the often-confusing comma. It isn’t easy holding complex sentences together (just ask a conjunction or a subordinate), but the clever little comma can help lighten the load. How can you tell whether a comma is really needed? Terisa Folaron offers some tricks of the comma trade in this TED-Ed Lesson.
What about the Oxford comma? If you read “Bob, a DJ and a clown” on a guest list, are three people coming to the party or only one? That depends on whether you’re for or against the most hotly-contested punctuation mark of all time. When do we use one? Can it really be optional, or is there a universal rule? In this lesson, TED-Ed explores both sides of this comma conundrum.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/02/23/holy-writ?Src=longreads
“Eve was across the room in a thin, burgundy dress that showed the faint outline of her stomach.”
Usage guides say that if you can substitute “and” for the comma it belongs there. Bryan Garner, the expert in American usage, offers another test: reverse the order of the adjectives. Would you ever say “a burgundy, thin dress”? I wouldn’t.
No brackets.
Like “thing,” parentheses only weaken what you actually want to say. If you want to say it, say it. If not, don’t.
Whether it’s the brackets that are unnecessary or what’s in them is for you to decide. But one of the two is. At least 99% of the time.
Probability is on your side when you ditch them.
Before: “You must pass a (ridiculously hard) course.”
After: “You must pass a ridiculously hard course.”
My recommendations:
Use ellipsis to indicate tht part of a quotation is missing: “We the people of the United States of America … promote the general welfare …”
Use ellipsis (or dashes) to suggest an interruption in dialogue: “I love you, Clara,” he said, looking into her eyes.
“I …” she stopped. Did she love him or not?
“You don’t have to say it.”
“No!” She told him, shaking her head violently from side to side. “I want to say it. I really do! It’s just that … Oh my God! Why did you take your pants off?”
Use ellipsis (or”etc.” or “and so on”) to indicate an unfinished sequence: “She loved everything ghoulish: monsters, zombies, blood, torture devices, beheadings …”
Do not use ellipsis to indicate a casual, folksy, stream-of-consciousness point-of-view. You’ll wind up catching a bad case of dot-itis: “So … the other day, I was talking to Bill … and we kinda decided to murder his cousin …”
Do not use them as a way of avoiding the commitment of periods, question marks, commas, semi-colons, and exclamation marks. Readers will not necessarily understand what you’re trying to convey, and dots will crop up all over your prose like weeds: “I was talking to my Mom the other day … about what I should do for a career … she suggested Journalism … I don’t know … I kind of want to be a mortician …”
Do not use ellipsis because you’d rather not figure out which more-appropriate punctuation symbol to use. Readers won’t be fooled. They won’t think you’re “just musing.” They’ll assume you don’t know how to punctuate: “What should I say to my boyfriend … he wants to break up … but I think we should stay together … what do you think …”
Do not use ellipsis as an attempt to inject profundity into your writing. Three dots do not make “Life sucks and then you die…” more deep than “Life sucks and then you die.”
Do not use ellipsis to “wisely” and “coyly” suggest, “… think about it,” as if you’re winking and tapping the side of your nose (or stroking your beard). You can’t effectively hedge profundity: “You didn’t like it? Well … that’s okay … I was just rambling … It wasn’t supposed to be pheeelosophy or anything … Oh, wait … what? … you did like it? Well, then … just goes to show you … sometimes rambling can contain a grain … just a tad … just a smidgen … of wisdom …”
In English, parenthesis (which I learned (from a comment) is what this question is really asking about) indicate an aside–a sidetrack from the main point the sentence is making. In most cases, you could remove the parenthetical phrase and the sentence would still make sense: “In English, parenthesis indicate an aside–a sidetrack from the main point the sentence is making.”
Examples:
My mother (gotta love her!) called me at 3am this morning.
I would like a steak (medium rare), mashed potatoes (with butter), and a slice of pie (apple, cherry, or rhubarb).
When Marsha (who looked just like her sister, Nancy, only taller and with slightly graying hair) looked Peter (her lawyer’s son) in his (piercing blue) eyes, she saw he was lost, as most young men are at that age (even if they’ve be raised by urban sophisticates), so (on an impulse) she leaned over and gave him a (chaste) kiss on the forehead, which he remembered for the rest of his (sadly short) life.
Some writers invert the relationship, making the parenthetical phrase the most important point in the sentence. (As I did this at the end of the last paragraph, with “(sadly short).”) This creates an ironic twist, in which the grammatical structure is saying one thing, but the subtext is saying the opposite. It’s like when you realize a person nervous by his body language, even though his words evoke confidence.
Example:
I would never cheat on my wife (unless I could so without getting caught).
There are other ironic uses, such as this famous one by Vladimir Nabokov, from Lolita:
My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. On a literal level, Nabokov is playing by the rules. You could cut “(picnic, lightening)” and “(I am writing under observation)” from the sentence, and it would still make sense. And yet those asides call more attention to themselves than the “main points.” They make you want to say, “Wait! Wait! Back up! Tell me more about the picnic and the observation!”
There are several ways to indicate an aside in English–and probably in most other languages–and each has a slightly different feel, though this is somewhat based on each reader’s individual perception, and this (along with other forms of punctuation) gives writers a nuanced utility belt. As I indicated in the previous sentence, the three main aside-markers are dashes, commas, and parenthesis.
Dashes loudly proclaim the beginning and ending of the aside. They’re like saying, “By they way…” Commas do it gently, folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence, almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside, but with more of a whisper than a bang.
Commas do it gently (folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence) almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside
Commas do it gently–folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence–almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside
I know this question is about poetry and I’ve only mentioned prose so far. But, in my experience, asides work the same way in either form. Some poets experiment and veer far away from standard usage, so it’s possible you’ll run across one with ((((quirks like this)))) in it, but some prose writers experiment, too, and it’s possible you’ll run across )))this((( in a novel. There are no rules. Writing is what you have the audacity to try and what you can get away with.
Viewpoint:
No brackets.
Like “thing,” parentheses only weaken what you actually want to say. If you want to say it, say it. If not, don’t.
Whether it’s the brackets that are unnecessary or what’s in them is for you to decide. But one of the two is. At least 99% of the time.
Probability is on your side when you ditch them.
Before: “You must pass a (ridiculously hard) course.”
After: “You must pass a ridiculously hard course.”
Can you ask a question without a question mark? This question previously had details. They are now in a comment. Profile photo for Marcus Geduld Marcus Geduld , Shakespearean director, computer programmer, teacher, writer, likes dinosaurs. Answered Jun 7, 2015 Are you asking whether written questions confuse readers if they don’t end in a question mark. Do ducks quack. Is rain wet.
Most readers will understand the three questions, above, just as they will understand the meaning of the following sentence: mi d0gg haz fl33s. It’s, amazing, how, many, rules, of, grammar, schpellingk, and, punc!utation, you, can, brake, and, still, be, underst,,,andable! Y cn wrt sntncs wtht vwls!
The downside of using non-traditional punctuation, besides getting a slap on the wrist from an editor or English teacher, is that it slows readers down. They have a momentary bout of cognitive dissonance, in which they wonder if they’ve misread something or if you’ve made a mistake. This puts a hurdle between the point you’re trying to make and the reader’s understanding of it. In most cases, readers can leap over the hurdle, but why make them do it in the first place? Why. Why. Why.
Why do poets sometimes include lines within brackets in their poems?
https://www.quora.com/profile/Marcus-Geduld Marcus Geduld, Published author, lifelong reader. 3.7k Views In English, parenthesis (which I learned (from a comment) is what this question is really asking about) indicate an aside–a sidetrack from the main point the sentence is making. In most cases, you could remove the parenthetical phrase and the sentence would still make sense: “In English, parenthesis indicate an aside–a sidetrack from the main point the sentence is making.” Examples: My mother (gotta love her!) called me at 3am this morning. I would like a steak (medium rare), mashed potatoes (with butter), and a slice of pie (apple, cherry, or rhubarb). When Marsha (who looked just like her sister, Nancy, only taller and with slightly graying hair) looked Peter (her lawyer’s son) in his (piercing blue) eyes, she saw he was lost, as most young men are at that age (even if they’ve be raised by urban sophisticates), so (on an impulse) she leaned over and gave him a (chaste) kiss on the forehead, which he remembered for the rest of his (sadly short) life. Some writers invert the relationship, making the parenthetical phrase the most important point in the sentence. (As I did this at the end of the last paragraph, with “(sadly short).”) This creates an ironic twist, in which the grammatical structure is saying one thing, but the subtext is saying the opposite. It’s like when you realize a person nervous by his body language, even though his words evoke confidence. Example: I would never cheat on my wife (unless I could so without getting caught). There are other ironic uses, such as this famous one by Vladimir Nabokov, from Lolita: My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. On a literal level, Nabokov is playing by the rules. You could cut “(picnic, lightening)” and “(I am writing under observation)” from the sentence, and it would still make sense. And yet those asides call more attention to themselves than the “main points.” They make you want to say, “Wait! Wait! Back up! Tell me more about the picnic and the observation!” There are several ways to indicate an aside in English–and probably in most other languages–and each has a slightly different feel, though this is somewhat based on each reader’s individual perception, and this (along with other forms of punctuation) gives writers a nuanced utility belt. As I indicated in the previous sentence, the three main aside-markers are dashes, commas, and parenthesis. Dashes loudly proclaim the beginning and ending of the aside. They’re like saying, “By they way…” Commas do it gently, folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence, almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside, but with more of a whisper than a bang. Commas do it gently (folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence) almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside Commas do it gently–folding the aside in with the rest of the sentence–almost masking the fact that it is an aside. Parenthesis, like dashes, clearly mark the aside I know this question is about poetry and I’ve only mentioned prose so far. But, in my experience, asides work the same way in either form. Some poets experiment and veer far away from standard usage, so it’s possible you’ll run across one with ((((quirks like this)))) in it, but some prose writers experiment, too, and it’s possible you’ll run across )))this((( in a novel. There are no rules. Writing is what you have the audacity to try and what you can get away with.
Can the interrobang [‽] symbol be used in everyday writing? If so how? This question previously had details. They are now in a comment. Profile photo for Marcus Geduld Marcus Geduld , Published author, lifelong reader. Answered Sep 19, 2014 I wouldn’t, because my goal when writing is to communicate ideas as clearly as possible and to evoke sensations as strongly as possible. Confusion tends to work against those goals (unless I’m trying to evoke a sensation of confusion), and most people, having never seen an interrobang before, will simply be confused by it.
Even if they figure out its meaning by context, their momentary confusion will blunt the effect.
And I can’t think of any function an interrobang serves that I can’t easily evoke via some less-obscure means.
J.D. Salinger: Melancholy About the Comma
It was very much the New Yorker’s editing style to be obsessive in a lot of different ways. The editors—Shawn principally among them—were equally passionate about where the commas should go and whether this warrants a dash or not. A writer would get to the point where he was answering countless questions; there were iterations and iterations and iterations of galleys.
A final proofreader found a spot that he felt needed a comma. He went to Maxwell, who looked at it and said, “Well, it looks like it needs a comma to me.” They couldn’t find Salinger, so they went ahead and put the comma in. When the story came out, Maxwell said Salinger was melancholy about that comma and never forgot it. Maxwell said, “I never again introduced another piece of punctuation into a Salinger story without talking to him.”
– Thomas Kunkel, quoted in “Salinger,” by David Shields and Shane Salemo.
“I see nothing,” Dong Huong said, again. The ground rumbled beneath her, even as her ears popped with pressure –more laughter from The Tortoise in the Lake, even as the darkness of space focused and narrowed – became the shadow of wings, the curve on vast surfaces – the hulls of two huge ships flanking them; thin, sharp, like a stretch of endless walls – making The Tortoise in the Lake seem small and insignificant, just as much as Dong Huong herself was small and insignificant in comparison to her own ship.
Yes, the dashes are really clumsy. But I think I can parse it:
The ground rumbled beneath her, even as her ears popped with pressure [–* There was] more laughter from The Tortoise in the Lake, even as the darkness of space focused and narrowed
[–** Darkness that] became the shadow of wings, the curve on vast surfaces [–* Darkness that was coming from] the hulls of two huge ships flanking them; thin, sharp, like a stretch of endless walls [–** Walls that were] making The Tortoise in the Lake seem small and insignificant, just as much as Dong Huong herself was small and insignificant in comparison to her own ship.
** here, the dash say, “I’m going to continue to describe darkness.”
*** here, the dash says, “I’m going to say something more about darkness.”
** here, the dash says, I’m going to include a parenthetical about walls.
I’d rewrite the paragraph this way:
“I see nothing,” Dong Huong said, again. The ground rumbled beneath her, even as her ears popped with pressure, causing* more laughter from The Tortoise in the Lake, even as the darkness of space focused and narrowed—became the shadow of wings, the curve on vast surfaces. The hulls of two huge ships flanked them: thin, sharp, like a stretch of endless walls, making The Tortoise in the Lake seem small and insignificant, just as much as Dong Huong herself was small and insignificant in comparison to her own ship.
*I’m not sure if we’re supposed to think the rumbling ground caused the laughter, and I don’t know what “The Tortoise in the Lake” refers to. If the goal isn’t to imply causation, maybe the rewrite should be “… even has her ears popped with pressure. There was more laughter from the Tortoise…”
23 March 2019