“[H]is own style being exceedingly dry and hard, he disapproved of the richness of Johnson's language, and of his frequent use of metaphorical expressions.”
If Johnson’s
prose is criticized, it’s usually for its Latinate solemnity and dignified gravitas
– hardly a tone adapted to today’s readers. The dry style in question is the
oddly named Lord Monboddo’s (1714-99), the Scottish judge and Darwin precursor
who once speculated that orangutans were human. He was a Deist, which probably
helped indict him in Dr. Johnson’s judgment. Boswell is writing on this date,
September 19, in 1777. Lord Monboddo had written a letter to Boswell in which
he criticized Johnson’s A Journey to the
Western Islands of Scotland (1775). Johnson replies:
“’Why, Sir,
this criticism would be just, if, in my style, superfluous words, or words too
big for the thoughts, could be pointed out; but this I do not believe can be
done.”
Johnson
distills the message I give younger, less experienced writers I work with at the
university. Eliminate superfluous words. Be ruthless. Read what you’ve just
written and remove the dross. I stress that any prose can be improved, most
often by deleting unnecessary words. The way we speak is not identical to the
way we write. Writing is editing. Likewise with “words too big for the
thoughts.” Customarily, this means jargon, clichés and pretentious language.
Popular at the moment is “leverage” as a verb, meaning to use or exploit. And all
research is “novel,” of course. Deep-six “leverage” and “novel.” And “stakeholders.”
Remember that word entered the language by way of gambling. Boswell continues
quoting Johnson:
“For
instance: in the passage which Lord Monboddo admires, ‘We were now treading
that illustrious region,’ the word illustrious,
contributes nothing to the mere narration; for the fact might be told without
it: but it is not, therefore, superfluous; for it wakes the mind to peculiar
attention, where something of more than usual importance is to be presented. ‘Illustrious!’—for
what? and then the sentence proceeds to expand the circumstances connected with
Iona. And, Sir, as to metaphorical expression, that is a great excellence in
style, when it is used with propriety, for it gives you two ideas for
one;—conveys the meaning more luminously, and generally with a perception of
delight.”
When I think
of “metaphorical” prose, two writers come to mind: Sir Thomas Browne and Herman
Melville. Of the former in his “Life of Browne,” Johnson writes what sounds
suspiciously like a self-judgment: “It is vigorous, but rugged; it is learned,
but pedantick; it is deep, but obscure; it strikes, but does not please; it
commands, but does not allure: his tropes are harsh, and his combinations
uncouth.” And this is a positive assessment.
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