I want to talk a little about the relationship between writing and rhetoric, because the two are tied in a bundle often taught together in schools and which, therefore, makes them impossible to separate.
The rhetorical aspect of writing consists, of course, of its
intention to persuade. To persuade, i.e. to change the state of someone's mind.
Where someone should be understood as a generic addressee: an individual, a
mass, a culture, the whole world of writing and reading.
The address
There is, in persuasion, an unpronounced resistance to utterance.
The addressee doesn't want or doesn't expect to be addressed. The address takes
place in a call-for-attention that is in itself uncalled-for.
Source: Rock Surfers |
So writing comes about as a duty to formulate a truth in such a way
as to render this resistance inoperational. If you know how to write down a
demand, it will grab your reader even if he/she was utterly uninterested in
what you wanted to say in the first place. This would be, in rough terms, the
primary principle of rhetoric.
There is this anecdote in Amélie Nothomb's Life Form, where the protagonist
tells the story of how she learnt the art of addressing audiences.
“Already at the age of six I was forced by my parents to write one letter a week to my maternal grandfather, a stranger who lived in Belgium. My brother and my older sisters were subjugated to the same regime. Each of us had to fill an entire letter-sized page addressed to this gentleman. He answered with one page per child. ‘Tell him what happened at school,’ my mother would suggest. ‘He won’t be interested,’ I retorted. ‘That depends on how you tell it,’ she explained.”
The grandfather is, obviously, a character in the background, someone
who's not here and now – a distant audience of the kind all forms of writing
must take into account when they play the game of persuasion. But what is of
utmost importance in Nothomb's allegory is the problem of the address itself.
Note that the grandfather has never asked for those letters. Even if he had
(the novel doesn't show this to have been the case), the situation wouldn't
change, because what is certain is that the demand to address him (the demand
formulated for the author of letters) comes from elsewhere. It is the mother
who operates as the one who calls for writing. This demand is an external
demand, something called-for by the present rhetorical situation, in which the
grandfather represents the invisible, mute, unknown reader.
And so, in the first place, the writer is moved by puzzlement. The
writer doesn't know what stands before her. The writer is taken by surprise by
this demand for an address that is uncalled-for.
Behind this puzzlement is the reality of the fact that the writing
act comes about not only without knowing its invisible-but-present audience,
but that it also comes about as an addressed unpreceded by a call. Most of the
books of the world have been written as the world had no need for them. In
order for a need to become apparent, one has to be aware of that which is
desired; one has to know it. I desire that which I do not have, but which I can
see present in the world: unattainable by me, and therefore desirable, but desirable
because already-seen. So a text that doesn't exist in the first place cannot be
wanted. Lists of books-to-read work precisely because those books exist and the
would-be reader knows of their existence.
The desire of persuasion
With persuasive writing, the desire is that of convincing an
audience that appears to the writer as a nebulous presence: something we are
sure exists out there, but which we cannot immediately associate with our own
writing act.
Source: Pick1 |
In other words, the fact that there is an audience doesn't mean that
this audience is my audience. To make this audience mine I need, first
and foremost, to come forward with a request to have its attention. Ladies
and gentlemen is that kind of formulation. Neither the ladies nor the
gentlemen are known to me, the utterer. They are just common nouns – known to
exist but not bound to listen to my utterance or to read my argument. Writing
comes to address precisely this lack of connection between me and my audience.
It is through writing that the connection is written: formulated the way all
uncertainties are formulated, by means of a call into a rhetorical void.
Everything that follows will be fairly easy to perform once the audience is
here, with me, walking along, nodding, turning their eyes towards the elevation
whence I pronounce my address.
Offerings
Because the reader is unknown and must be brought to the table,
he/she needs to be offered something. The address of writing is, in essence, an
offering to the reader. I need to give something away in order to gain my
audience. I need to tickle the indifferent spirit of my audience in order to
make it aware of my presence. That's why the beginnings of all written texts
need to be renunciations of the author's essential hermeticism, his/her
unavoidable reference to a self that is not translatable, not understandable
without mediation. To put it otherwise, by writing I make concessions to my
reader by facilitating their understanding of me (and my text); i.e. I cannot
remain sufficient to myself. My writing marks a rupture in my self.
In this respect, all texts are rhetorical, even those that don't
purport to be exercises in persuasion. A shopping list is the visible form of
the desire present in me but invisible to the exterior. A shopping list is an
interesting exercise is writing, because it takes its very author as its
audience. Of course, the purpose of the writing act (because purpose stands on
an equal footing with the address) is to store information that is threatened
by the plague of forgetting. But at the same time it is (and the shopping list
shows it without a shade of doubt) a way of pointing out to the self that the
items written on the list are truly desired.
Once I see potatoes on my shopping list I can swear I need potatoes.
Saying it well
Things may be more complicated when it comes to literary
productions, or the highly-elaborated productions in the department of
rhetoric and persuasion. But in essence they are similar to the situation
described by the shopping list. The author puts forth a call for recognition
that the reader needs to read accordingly. If the reader fails to read, the
text has two options: it will either be horribly misread and therefore killed,
or it will be read differently, and therefore brought to life. But in both
instances, the separation from the writer is immediately apparent. After the
address, anything is likely to happen.
Source: MC's Whispers |
This is why eloquence is so important. Eloquence, or well-saying, is
the means by which utterances are formulated so as to make sure they hit their
target. The target, i.e. the audience. Eloquence is the long-exercised aim in a
game of archery in which the arrows are always shot in the dark.
Knowing-your-audience, the desideratum of all rhetorical situations,
is therefore nothing but a red herring. There's no such thing as knowing your
audience. Simply because your audience isn't there for you to see, and neither
is it there unchanged, set in stone, like a fruit waiting to be picked.
Audience is not even something to be named in the singular. Audience is
multiplicity: it evolves constantly, sometimes exactly while it is being
addressed. Not only that, but the text itself can be approached by audiences
never considered by the writing subject. What's more, some of these audiences
do not approach my text in its totality but only for the parts that serve their
present interest or curiosity.
Faced with these perfectly volatile conditions, writers are forced
to return upon the address as the only real chance of making a move. Their
ability to call for attention is the only weapon to be used in this battle of
the spirits. Their act is not a statement of power but an invitation. They do
not conquer, but offer to sacrifice. And this offer to sacrifice happens, oddly
enough, when nobody is requesting it. Isn't writing quite something, then!
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