Brevity
In the introduction to his recent collection of pieces Theological Territories, David Bentley Hart comments that the majority of the content is from ‘live addresses’ rather than those prepared for print. As a consequence the ideas, he observes, ‘are expressed more concisely and with greater clarity than they might have been in the context of a large written text. A single address written to be delivered live belongs to a special genre, one that imposes certain exigencies on its author. One does not enjoy the liberty of extending one’s exposition beyond the scope of, say, an hour (or forty-five minutes, if one is merciful), but neither can one curtail one’s remarks before reaching a satisfactory conclusion. It is a usefully severe discipline, especially if one hopes to say anything of consequence in the time allotted. The result, if one succeeds in one’s aims, can be a degree of economy and lucidity that the greater freedom of a longer text might actually discourage or thwart.’
The demands of satisfying an audience do not necessarily require economy and lucidity. Many of the addresses I’ve listened to certainly do not exemplify either. What was said in one hour could have been said in fifteen minutes (or less) and even if what was said was in fifteen minutes, it still would not have been lucid. But if Hart isn’t entirely right that the limits of posterior adipose deposits impose conditions favouring lucidity and economy in speech, he most definitely is about the liberties taken by writers at the expense of their readers.
Much writing is baggy for one reason or another. Hart points to the ability to extend exposition. But this need not be the only reason. There are excessive and florid styles. There is repetition. There is walking around obscurity. There is superfluousness. There is self-indulgence. There is writing to length. Yet economy and clarity in writing is not merely a practical exigency imposed by external conditions, the patience of which can be stretched to breaking point, but a moral imperative. If addresses are short, writing, relatively, should be shorter.
There is a scene in A River Runs Through It where the young Norman Maclean presents a composition to his father, a Presbyterian minister, only to be told to write it again ‘half as long.’ His father, Maclean observes, ‘being a Scot, believed that the art of writing lay in thrift.’ The next time Maclean presented his work he was told ‘Again, half as long.’ Finally, on the third occasion, his father replied ‘Good. Now throw it away.’