A
roundabout manner of speaking is detrimental to a debater. It confuses
opponents and vexes adjudicators; worse, it bores people. Coupled with speed,
what is detrimental becomes condemnable. “Speak less, communicate more” is the
golden rule for Asian parliamentarians going international. Finesse in logic
can only come with proper slowness in speech; effective delivery of such
finesse requires the same. The one to best express this quality, naturally, just
had to be Hemingway: “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come
from big words?”
From
a heartfelt respect for Hemingway, I train my words to fly directly to the
point, to that one aperture in the enemy lines. The same principles apply to
writing. “Be ruthless,” dictates my inner Hemingway, “Make paragraphs
sentences, sentences words.” Admittedly, verbal pragmatism has its merits. Shorter
sentences often carry greater power; condensation of complex ideas facilitates
understanding. But prioritizing precision results in depressingly
straightforward prose. In this litany of dry tone and general assertiveness, I
begin to doubt the benefits of my modus operandi. Writing, I reason, is a
reflection of the soul. Regardless of subject matter, one writes what is inside—after
all, left to one’s own devices with a pen and a slip of paper, one has no
choice. So what testimony does my writing offer regarding my character? Do I
like what my words babble about me in my absence?
In
all honesty, my pursuit of concise but cogent writing expresses a particular
personal desire—namely, that I live a life as powerfully convincing as my words
aim to be. A good piece of writing, persuasive or otherwise, should be devoid
of baseless normative judgment and unnecessary emotional outpour. Rarely do I
use the word “I” in any sentence. The impersonal nature of my writing allows me
to escape from the petty, if amusing, subjectivity of conversations. Stripping
down any idea to its core is not only a fascinating intellectual venture—it is
also a valuable life experience. Wisdom comes with the ability to differentiate
right from wrong, the important from the immaterial, and the coherent from the fallacious.
My ruthlessness is therefore its own reward.
At
the same time, however, I know that not everything is an argument, though extensive
debate will create such misconceptions. In reading newspaper columns or dealing
with particularly unreasonable people, debate skills are useful rather than
not; but the opportunistic use of the same tools in, say, arguing one’s way out
of washing the dishes is not the most admirable thing in the world. Similarly,
ideas exist not merely for neat packaging and efficient shipping. The mind must
be allowed to wander, if one is to have fun in this life.
Whether
this verbal pragmatism is a fair representation of my character is therefore an
entirely different question altogether. My mind is filled with wanderlust, a
desire to probe through any and every fascinating idea. In that sense, I am a
conversation addict—I am not the cold rationalist I nurture through my writing.
I will be enamored by any inspired thought, any analytic statement attempting
to make better sense of this world. Each mind is tinted with a different hue; a
conversation endows me with the privilege of looking at the world in other
shades. Through the combination of these colors, I make my thoughts more
precise, specific, and useful. More importantly, though, I enjoy myself.
I,
too, am occasionally stifled by this singularly dominant force in my writing. I
am not the desiccated debater my writing makes me out to be. When this
misrepresentation becomes excessive, I use my words as paint and brushes,
instead of parameters and logical links. I talk about how the clouds were
parting, wisps of cotton in merry dispersion, chased away by a swift blue wind;
I tell of a glorious summer sun, shining through the verdant leaves. Six months
later, magnificent pines would be adorning themselves in shawls of rich white,
powdery flowers budding on the bare branches of winter, and the azure roof
tiles laden with snow.
Just
so I can prove it wrong.
