“Thumps not the desk nor smacks of bitten nails,”all these become ridiculous, unless we are alone, Finally, [22] we come to the most important consideration of all, that the advantages of privacy are lost when we dictate. Everyone, however, will agree that the absence of company and deep silence are most conducive to writing, though I would not go so far as to concur in the opinion of those who think woods and groves the most suitable localities for the purpose, on the ground that the freedom of the sky and the charm of the surroundings produce sublimity of thought and wealth of inspiration. [23] Personally I regard such an environment as a [p. 105] pleasant luxury rather than a stimulus to study. For whatever causes us delight, must necessarily distract us from the concentration due to our work. The mind cannot devote its undivided and sincere attention to a number of things at the same time, and wherever it turns its gaze it must cease to contemplate its appointed task. [24] Therefore, the charm of the woods, the gliding of the stream, the breeze that murmurs in the branches, the song of birds, and the very freedom with which our eyes may range, are mere distractions, and in my opinion the pleasure which they excite is more likely to relax than to concentrate our attention. [25] Demosthenes took a wiser view; for he would retire to a place3 where no voice was to be heard, and no prospect greeted the sight, for fear that his eyes might force his mind to neglect its duty. Therefore, let the burner of the midnight oil seclude himself in the silence of night, within closed doors, with but a solitary lamp to light his labours. [26] But for every kind of study, and more especially for night work, good health and its chief source, simple living, are essential; for we have fallen into the habit of devoting to relentless labour the hour which nature has appointed for rest and relaxation. From those hours we must take only such time as is superfluous for sleep, and will not be missed. [27] For fatigue will make us careless in writing, and the hours of daylight are amply sufficient for one who has no other distractions. It is only the busy man who is driven to encroach on the hours of darkness. Nevertheless, night work, so long as we come to it fiesh and untired, provides by far the best form of privacy. [p. 107] [28] But although silence and seclusion and absolute freedom of mind are devoutly to be desired, they are not always within our power to attain. Consequently we must not fling aside our book at once, if disturbed by some noise, and lament that we have lost a day: on the contrary, we must make a firm stand against such inconveniences, and train ourselves so to concentrate our thoughts as to rise superior to all impediments to study. If only you direct all your attention to the work which you have in hand, no sight or sound will ever penetrate to your mind. [29] If even casual thoughts often occupy us to such an extent that we do not see passers-by, or even stray from our path, surely we can obtain the same result by the exercise of our will. We must not give way to pretexts for sloth. For unless we make up our mind that we must be fresh, cheerful and free from all other care when we approach our studies, we shall always find some excuse for idleness. [30] Therefore, whether we be in a crowd, on a journey, or even at some festive gathering, our thoughts should always have some inner sanctuary of their own to which they may retire. Otherwise what shall we do when we are suddenly called upon to deliver a set speech in the midst of the forum, with lawsuits in progress on every side, and with the sound of quarrels and even casual outcries in our ears, if we need absolute privacy to discover the thoughts which we jot down upon our tablets? It was for this reason that Demosthenes, the passionate lover of seclusion, used to study on the seashore amid the roar of the breakers that they might teach him not to be unnerved by the uproar of the public assembly. [31] There are also certain minor details which deserve [p. 109] our attention, for there is nothing too minute for the student. It is best to write on wax owing to the facility which it offers for erasure, though weak sight may make it desirable to employ parchment by preference. The latter, however, although of assistance to the eye, delays the hand and interrupts the stream of thought owing to the frequency with which the pen has to be supplied with ink. [32] But whichever we employ, we must leave blank pages that we may be free to make additions when we will. For lack of space at times gives rise to a reluctance to make corrections, or, at any rate, is liable to cause confusion when new matter is inserted. The wax tablets should not be unduly wide; for I have known a young and over-zealous student write his compositions at undue length, because he measured them by the number of lines, a fault which persisted, in spite of frequent admonition, until his tablets were changed, when it disappeared. [33] Space must also be left for jotting down the thoughts which occur to the writer out of due order, that is to say, which refer to subjects other than those in hand. For sometimes the most admirable thoughts break in upon us which cannot be inserted in what we are writing, but which, on the other hand, it is unsafe to put by, since they are at times forgotten, and at times cling to the memory so persistently as to divert us from some other line of thought. They are, therefore, best kept in store.
3. Such are the aids which we may derive from
external sources; as regards those which we must
supply for ourselves, it is the pen which brings at
once the most labour and the most profit. Cicero is
fully justified in describing it as the best producer
and teacher of eloquence, and it may be noted
that in the de Oratore1 he supports his own
judgment by the authority of Lucius Crassus, in
whose mouth he places this remark.
[2]
We must
[p. 93]
therefore write as much as possible and with the
utmost care. For as deep ploughing makes the soil
more fertile for the production and support of crops,
so, if we improve our minds by something more than
mere superficial study, we shall produce a richer
growth of knowledge and shall retain it with greater
accuracy. For without the consciousness of such
preliminary study our powers of speaking extempore
will give us nothing but an empty flow of words,
springing from the lips and not from the brain.
[3]
It
is in writing that eloquence has its roots and foundations, it is writing that provides that holy of holies
where the wealth of oratory is stored, and whence it
is produced to meet the demands of sudden emergencies. It is of the first importance that we should
develop such strength as will not faint under the
toil of forensic strife nor be exhausted by continual
use.
[4]
For it is an ordinance of nature that nothing
great can be achieved in a moment, and that all the
fairest tasks are attended with difficulty, while on
births as well she has imposed this law, that the
larger the animal, the longer should be the period of
gestation.
There are, however, two questions which present
themselves in this connexion, namely, what should
be our method and what the subjects on which
we write, and I propose to treat them in this
order.
[5]
At first, our pen must be slow yet sure: we
must search for what is best and refuse to give a
joyful welcome to every thought the moment that
it presents itself; we must first criticise the fruits of
our imagination, and then, once approved, arrange
them with care. For we must select both thoughts
and words and weigh them one by one. This done,
[p. 95]
we must consider the order in which they should be
placed, and must examine all the possible varieties
of rhythm, refusing necessarily to place each word in
the order in which it occurs to us.
[6]
In order to do
this with the utmost care, we must frequently revise
what we have just written. For beside the fact that
thus we secure a better connexion between what
follows and what precedes, the warmth of thought
which has cooled down while we were writing is
revived anew, and gathers fresh impetus from going
over the ground again. We may compare this protess with what occurs in jumping matches. The
competitors take a longer run and go at full speed
to clear the distance which they aim at covering;
similarly, in throwing the javelin, we draw back our
arms, and in archery pull back the bow-string to
propel the shaft.
[7]
At times, however, we may
spread our sails before the favouring breeze, but we
must beware that this indulgence does not lead us
into error. For we love all the offspring of our
thought at the moment of their birth; were that
not so, we should never commit them to writing.
But we must give them a critical revision, and go
carefully over any passage where we have reason to
regard our fluency with suspicion.
[8]
It is thus, we
are told, that Sallust wrote, and certainly his works
give clear evidence of the labour which he expended
on them. Again, we learn from Varius that Virgil
composed but a very small number of verses every
day.
[9]
It is true that with orators the case is somewhat different, and it is for this reason that I
enjoin such slowness of speed and such anxious care
at the outset. For the first aim which we must fix
in our minds and insist on carrying into execution
[p. 97]
is to write as well as possible; speed will come with
practice. Gradually thoughts will suggest themselves with increasing readiness, the words will
answer to our call and rhythmical arrangement will
follow, till everything will be found fulfilling its
proper function as in a well-ordered household.
The sum of the whole matter is this:
[10]
write quickly
and you will never write well, write well and you
will soon write quickly. But it is just when we
have acquired this facility that we must pause awhile
to look ahead and, if I may use the metaphor, curb
the horses that would run away with us. This will
not delay our progress so much as lend us fresh
vigour. For I do not think that those who have
acquired a certain power in writing should be condemned to the barren pains of false self-criticism.
[11]
How can anyone fulfil his duties as an advocate if he
wastes his time in putting unnecessary finish on each
portion of his pleadings? There are some who are
never satisfied. They wish to change everything
they have written and to put it in other words.
They are a diffident folk, and deserve but ill of their
own talents, who think it a mark of precision to cast
obstacles in the way of their own writing.
[12]
Nor is it
easy to say which are the most serious offenders, those
who are satisfied with everything or those who are
satisfied with nothing that they write. For it is
of common occurrence with young men, however
talented they may be, to waste their gifts by superfluous elaboration, and to sink into silence through
an excessive desire to speak well. I remember in
this connexion a story that Julius Secundus, my contemporary, and, as is well known, my very dear friend,
a man with remarkable powers of eloquence, but
[p. 99]
with an infinite passion for precision, told me of the
words once used to him by his uncle,
[13]
Julius Florus,
the leading orator of Gaul, for it was there that he
practised, a man eloquent as but few have ever
been, and worthy of his nephew. He once noticed
that Secundus, who was still a student, was looking
depressed, and asked him the meaning of his frowns.
The youth made no concealment of the reason:
[14]
he
had been working for three days, and had been unable, in spite of all his efforts, to devise an exordium
for the theme which he had been given to write,
with the result that he was not only vexed over
his immediate difficulty, but had lost all hope of
future success. Florus smiled and said, “Do you
really want to speak better than you can?”
[15]
There
lies the truth of the whole matter. We must aim
at speaking as well as we can, but must not try to
speak better than our nature will permit. For to
make any real advance we need study, not selfaccusation. And it is not merely practice that will
enable us to write at greater length and with
increased fluency, although doubtless practice is
most important. We need judgement as well. So
long as we do not he back with eyes turned up to the
ceiling, trying to fire our imagination by muttering
to ourselves, in the hope that something will present
itself, but turn our thoughts to consider what the
circumstances of the case demand, what suits the
characters involved, what is the nature of the occasion and the temper of the judge, we shall acquire
the power of writing by rational means. It is thus
that nature herself bids us begin and pursue our
studies once well begun.
[16]
For most points are of a
definite character and, if we keep our eyes open,
[p. 101]
will spontaneously present themselves. That is the
reason why peasants and uneducated persons do not
beat about the bush to discover with what they
should begin, and our hesitation is all the more
shameful if it is simply the result of education.
We must not, therefore, persist in thinking that
what is hard to find is necessarily best; for, if it
seems to us that there is nothing to be said except
that which we are unable to find, we must say
nothing at all.
[17]
On the other hand, there is a fault
which is precisely the opposite of this, into which
those fall who insist on first making a rapid draft
of their subject with the utmost speed of which
their pen is capable, and write in the heat and
impulse of the moment. They call this their rough
copy. They then revise what they have written,
and arrange their hasty outpourings. But while
the words and the rhythm may be corrected, the
matter is still marked by the superficiality resulting
from the speed with which it was thrown together.
[18]
The more correct method is, therefore, to exercise
care from the very beginning, and to form the
work from the outset in such a manner that it
merely requires to be chiselled into shape, not
fashioned anew. Sometimes, however, we must
follow the stream of our emotions, since their
warmth will give us more than any diligence can
secure.
[19]
The condemnation which I have passed on such
carelessness in writing will make it pretty clear what
my views are on the luxury of dictation which
is now so fashionable. For, when we write, however
great our speed, the fact that the hand cannot follow
the rapidity of our thoughts gives us time to think,
[p. 103]
whereas the presence of our amanuensis hurries us
on, and at times we feel ashamed to hesitate or
pause, or make some alteration, as though we were
afraid to display such weakness before a witness.
[20]
As a result our language tends not merely to be
haphazard and formless, but in our desire to produce
a continuous flow we let slip positive improprieties
of diction, which show neither the precision of the
writer nor the impetuosity of the speaker. Again, if
the amanuensis is a slow writer, or lacking in intelligence, he becomes a stumbling-block, our speed is
checked, and the thread of our ideas is interrupted
by the delay or even perhaps by the loss of
temper to which it gives rise.
[21]
Moreover, the
gestures which accompany strong feeling, and sometimes even serve to stimulate the mind, the waving
of the hand, the contraction of the brow, the
occasional striking of forehead or side, and those
which Persius2 notes when he describes a trivial
style as one that
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