On Familiar Style (节选)
William[威廉·哈兹里特是英国19世纪最著名的文艺评论家、散文家和哲学家之一，以其人文写作和文艺批评成名，并与Samuel Johnson和George Orwell等人齐名。本文原发表于伦敦杂志，哈兹里特在其中介绍他对“平凡词语和通俗结构”的偏好。]
It is not
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[威廉·哈兹里特是英国19世纪最著名的文艺评论家、散文家和哲学家之一，以其人文写作和文艺批评成名，并与Samuel Johnson和George Orwell等人齐名。本文原发表于伦敦杂志，哈兹里特在其中介绍他对“平凡词语和通俗结构”的偏好。]
It is not
easy to write a familiar style. Many people mistake a familiar for
a vulgar style, and suppose that to write without affectation is to
write at random. On the contrary, there is nothing that requires
more precision, and, if I may so say, purity of expression, than
the style I am speaking of. It utterly rejects not only all
unmeaning pomp, but all low, cant phrases, and loose, unconnected,
slipshod allusions. It is not to take the first word that
offers, but the best word in common use; it is not to throw words
together in any combinations we please, but to follow and avail
ourselves of the true idiom of the language. To write a genuine
familiar or truly English style, is to write as any one would speak
in common conversation who had a thorough command and choice of
words, or who could discourse with ease, force, and perspicuity,
setting aside all pedantic and oratorical flourishes. Or, to give
another illustration, to write naturally is the same thing in
regard to common conversation as to read naturally is in regard to
common speech. . . It is easy to affect a pompous style, to use a
word twice as big as the thing you want to express: it is not so
easy to pitch upon the very word that exactly fits it. Out of eight
or ten words equally common, equally intelligible, with nearly
equal pretensions, it is a matter of some nicety and discrimination
to pick out the very one, the preferableness of which is scarcely
perceptible, but decisive. . . .
The proper force of words lies not in the words themselves, but in their application. A word may be a fine-sounding word, of an unusual length, and very imposing from its learning and novelty, and yet in the connection in which it is introduced may be quite pointless and irrelevant. It is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to the idea, that clinches a writer's meaning:--as it is not the size or glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each to its place, that gives strength to the arch; or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timber, and more so than the mere showy, unsubstantial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of band-boxes go along the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dispose of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises, may strike out twenty varieties of familiar every-day language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in his mind. . . .
It is as easy to write a gaudy style without ideas, as it is to spread a pallet of showy colours, or to smear in a flaunting transparency. 'What do you read,'--'Words, words, words.'--'What is the matter?'--'Nothing,' it might be answered. The florid style is the reverse of the familiar. The last is employed as an unvarnished medium to convey ideas; the first is resorted to as a spangled veil to conceal the want of them. When there is nothing to be set down but words, it costs little to have them fine. Look through the dictionary and cull out a florilegium, rival the tulippomania. Rouge high enough, and never mind the natural complexion. The vulgar, who are not in the secret, will admire the look of preternatural health and vigour; and the fashionable, who regard only appearances, will be delighted with the imposition. Keep to your sounding generalities, your tinkling phrases, and all will be well. Swell out an unmeaning truism to a perfect tympany of style. A thought, a distinction is the rock on which all this brittle cargo of verbiage splits at once. Such writers have merely verbal imaginations, that retain nothing but words. Or their puny thoughts have dragon-wings, all green and gold. They soar far above the vulgar failing of the Sermo humi obrepens--their most ordinary speech is never short of an hyperbole, splendid, imposing, vague, incomprehensible, magniloquent, a cento of sounding common-places. If some of us, whose 'ambition is more lowly,' pry a little too narrowly into nooks and corners to pick up a number of 'unconsidered trifles,' they never once direct their eyes or lift their hands to seize on any but the most gorgeous, tarnished, thread-bare, patchwork set of phrases, the left-off finery of poetic extravagance, transmitted down through successive generations of barren pretenders . . .
The proper force of words lies not in the words themselves, but in their application. A word may be a fine-sounding word, of an unusual length, and very imposing from its learning and novelty, and yet in the connection in which it is introduced may be quite pointless and irrelevant. It is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to the idea, that clinches a writer's meaning:--as it is not the size or glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each to its place, that gives strength to the arch; or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timber, and more so than the mere showy, unsubstantial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of band-boxes go along the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dispose of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises, may strike out twenty varieties of familiar every-day language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in his mind. . . .
It is as easy to write a gaudy style without ideas, as it is to spread a pallet of showy colours, or to smear in a flaunting transparency. 'What do you read,'--'Words, words, words.'--'What is the matter?'--'Nothing,' it might be answered. The florid style is the reverse of the familiar. The last is employed as an unvarnished medium to convey ideas; the first is resorted to as a spangled veil to conceal the want of them. When there is nothing to be set down but words, it costs little to have them fine. Look through the dictionary and cull out a florilegium, rival the tulippomania. Rouge high enough, and never mind the natural complexion. The vulgar, who are not in the secret, will admire the look of preternatural health and vigour; and the fashionable, who regard only appearances, will be delighted with the imposition. Keep to your sounding generalities, your tinkling phrases, and all will be well. Swell out an unmeaning truism to a perfect tympany of style. A thought, a distinction is the rock on which all this brittle cargo of verbiage splits at once. Such writers have merely verbal imaginations, that retain nothing but words. Or their puny thoughts have dragon-wings, all green and gold. They soar far above the vulgar failing of the Sermo humi obrepens--their most ordinary speech is never short of an hyperbole, splendid, imposing, vague, incomprehensible, magniloquent, a cento of sounding common-places. If some of us, whose 'ambition is more lowly,' pry a little too narrowly into nooks and corners to pick up a number of 'unconsidered trifles,' they never once direct their eyes or lift their hands to seize on any but the most gorgeous, tarnished, thread-bare, patchwork set of phrases, the left-off finery of poetic extravagance, transmitted down through successive generations of barren pretenders . . .