Reacting to the Past: Introduction

THE BASIC CONCEPT

In most classes students learn by receiving ideas and information from instructors, discussions and readings. “Reacting to the Past” sessions employ a different pedagogy. Students learn by taking on roles, informed by historical texts, in games set in the past; they learn skills—speaking, writing, critical thinking, problem solving, leadership, and teamwork—in order to prevail in difficult and complicated situations. That is because Reacting roles, unlike those in a play, do not have a fixed script and outcome. While students will be obliged to adhere to the philosophical and intellectual beliefs of the historical figures they have been assigned to play, they must devise their own means of expressing those ideas persuasively, in papers, speeches or other public presentations; and students must also pursue a course of action they think will help them win the game.

Sometimes students chafe at the notion of playing games. It can be awkward when we first attempt to inhabit the characters of long-dead people. But the hope is that the experience will fun: it is designed explicitly as a game, and amusing (playful?) things will happen. Sometimes Reacting games give rise to other emotions – anger, desire for revenge, sadness, exhilaration, gratitude… Any game can be enjoyable if one plays it well, but this nearly always requires hard work.

Our Reacting game consists of four components:

a) a student game book

b) historical texts (relating to the Fourth Crusade, or Byzantine History)

c) a role description, which will be provided to the student

d) an instructor’s manual, which supplies the Gamemaster with guidance in setting up and running the game.

The first two components (a and b) are available to everyone. The role description is secret: students should not show it to anyone. The instructor’s manual, which is not available to students, provides a menu of elements that instructors select in setting up a game. This allows them to shape a game to suit their interests and pedagogical purposes. It also ensures that Reacting classes differ even when multiple classes are playing the “same” game on the same campus.

THREE PHASES: SET-UP, GAME, & POST-MORTEM

During the first few sessions of a game, known as the set-up phase, the instructor will provide general guidance on the historical context, major texts, and intellectual issues of the game. These sessions will be much like a “normal” class, consisting of short lectures and instructor-directed discussion. After four introductory lectures, the class will break into factions, allowing students in the same factions, or with similar roles, to determine how to work together to accomplish their objectives. Students should also meet regularly with their faction outside of class meetings.

By the sixth session, the game phase will commence. Students whose characters function in a supervisory capacity will preside over the proceedings. In our case, the leader of the Fourth Crusade, Marquis Boniface of Montferrat (Hailey) will preside over the initial meetings. Boniface might choose to be temporarily replaced by a proxy for a round or, in an unlikely circumstance that they are killed or deposed as leader, someone else will have to be elected to lead (and this preside over our meetings).

The professor, now the Gamemaster (GM), will likely sit to the side, intruding only to resolve disputes or issue rulings. The GM will determine when the game is over. Then follows the “post-mortem” phase, in which winners are announced, students relinquish their roles, and the entire class freely discusses the game and attendant issues from (their own) contemporary perspective.

COUNTERFACTUAL HISTORY AND INDIVIDUAL AGENCY

Reacting games are designed to reflect the multiple causal forces that shape history—economic, political, sociological, technological, and cultural. But unlike conventional history courses, which teach what happened and why, Reacting games may depart from the actual events and outcomes of the past. Socrates may be acquitted; conservatives may circumvent the radical phase of the French revolution, and so on. This may seem to be an odd way of “teaching” history.

There are several justifications for the Reacting approach.

The first justification concerns historical causation. Most history lecturers and textbook authors seek to tell clear and persuasive narratives: Event X led to Event Y which led to Event Z. If the narrative is too complicated, students will not learn “what happened.” Historians thus rely on strong declarative statements of a causal character. But all causal statements include (often unstated) counterfactual hypotheses. For example, the statement—“Aggressive British tax policies caused the American colonists to break away from Great Britain”—includes the unstated premise—“If Britain did not pursue aggressive tax policies, the American colonists would not have broken away from Britain.” Reacting games, by providing the possibility of alternative narratives, illuminate counterfactual premises and deepen our understanding of historical causation.

The second and related justification concerns the role of the individual in history. Because historians commonly focus on the large forces of a universalizing character (industrialization, modernization, technological change), they sometimes neglect the role of the individual. In Reacting, students can change history; this presumes that history is contingent—that it could have pursued a different course from what happened. By asserting the centrality of individual agency, Reacting provides a balance to the conventional emphasis on the “large forces” that figure so prominently in most historical accounts.

WINNING THE GAME

In most games, players know all of the rules at the outset; and they commence the game with equal prospects of winning. But life adheres to neither of these game conventions. Often the best-laid plans fall apart; and people do not begin life on equal footing. In Reacting, similarly, things may happen that one may not anticipate and over which one has little or no control. Moreover, the role students are assigned affects their prospects for winning. Some objectives are more difficult to achieve than others, and chance may intervene in unpredictable ways. A student may play a game brilliantly and lose, or he or she may bungle his or her way to victory. All of this is to concede that Reacting is not “fair.” Nor is life. [Note: Remember that a student’s grade is not dependent on winning: if a student’s papers and class performance are superb, he or she will likely receive an A even if he or she loses the game; conversely, if a student’s papers and class performance are poor, he or she will likely receive a poor grade even if he or she wins the game. The instructor may choose to award a small grade bonus to “winners”: the “winner’s bonus” is applied to the class participation component of the student’s grade; if students are unsure of whether their class includes the “winner’s” bonus, they should ask their instructor.]

Persuasion is at the heart of all Reacting games. Although most roles are partisan in character, obliging students to advance views with which others will disagree, some roles are indeterminate or ambiguous. “Indeterminates” are partially free to consider the primary texts and listen to the class debates with an open mind. But heed the modifier partially: the indeterminate roles are not determined but they are shaped by history. The “victory objectives” of “indeterminate” players require that they faithfully “represent” a type of actual historical person. This cannot be defined precisely: the “indeterminates” will have the freedom to arrive at their own opinions, but their opinions must in some way be consistent with their historical “role.” This, too, is like life. When, for example, one is called to serve as juror, one is free to vote his or her opinion, yet one is also bound by one’s oath as juror to abide by the laws of the state. “Indeterminates,” though free to take whatever position they wish, are still obliged to represent with some credibility their assigned social/historical role.

In order to win the debates—to persuade the “indeterminates” to support one’s objectives—students must understand the historical/social context of their assumed lives. The objectives of some players may be “determined” (stated at the outset) and yet not correspond with those of the major factions. In life, some people always have their own, or merely different, agendas. The purpose of such roles is to establish additional links to the actual forces that impinged on the historical debates. All of this is to say that a Reacting game is very complicated; one cannot possibly “figure it” all out. Nevertheless, a close reading of the historical context will provide clues to some of these forces.

Students can improve their prospects for success in several additional ways: first, by plunging into the gamebook and the readings before the first meeting of the set-up session; by forming an effective and cooperative team; by studying the world one will inhabit; and by making plans for the unexpected. In addition to understanding those whom students wish to persuade, they must study the views of those who seek to block their goals. Students should read the game materials several times and the accompanying texts carefully. They also need to cultivate skills that enable them to speak and write clearly and persuasively, solve problems, and work effectively with others.

COURSE REQUIREMENTS AND GRADING

Reading

The central premise of “Reacting” is that ideas and life are interwoven. A less obvious corollary is that the study of ideas cannot be undertaken without consideration of the social context in which they emerged, and that the study of people requires an awareness of the intellectual constructs that have shaped their societies and cultures.

This is important to the game because students will be obliged, in a very short period of time, to acquire a solid understanding of complex ideas and difficult texts, and also to navigate through a historical situation that is equally complicated.

The readings, consequently, tend to be of two types: 1) the works of important thinkers; and 2) books and articles that establish the social or historical context. Students may be daunted by their first encounter with medieval chronicles or papal letters. Students must engage with these texts fully and in the light of the historical moment that brought them to the fore. Students may be tempted to take a point that makes sense to their classmates without bothering to figure out how the argument was originally framed. (“We all know that war is bad, right?”) This lazy strategy almost surely will not work: the superficiality of the engagement with the material will be evident to the instructor and your fellow students. More important, easy arguments, though perhaps attuned to one’s classmates, will be hard to defend when sharply examined by those whose roles contradict one’s own role. If students have failed to scrutinize the entire train of these ideas, they will be hard-pressed to make persuasive arguments.

A student’s task as reader is simplified by the fact that his or her position is determined at the outset. That is, if a student has been assigned the task of persuading the war council that any war for Christianity is a just war, then his or her ideas might be contradicted by others who support a more strictly Augustinian idea of just war (i.e. defensive wars). If a student is assigned to be a cleric (e.g. a bishop) they will likely have different attitudes to violence than a Flemish noble. A student will look for weaknesses of evidence or argument.

A key point: Students should not wait until the game phase begins to do the reading. Reacting games unfold swiftly and often shift focus. Students must possess advance knowledge to be prepared and should commence reading even before the first setup phase class.

Making Arguments

Students need not believe what they argue, but they must make their cases persuasively. To argue effectively, students should keep several things in mind:

1) Students must build their arguments on solid facts; lazy students may merely articulate “their” ideas as outlined on their “role sheets”. But even well-expressed opinions, if unsupported by fact, will not persuade. Students must conduct research, often of a historical character, to support their opinions. [Note: everything that occurred in history prior to the beginning of the game can be cited in a student’s speeches and papers; but one cannot cite events that occurred after the beginning of the game. In our game, anything that would be reasonable known to Europeans in 1204 can be drawn on – for our purpose, that will likely mean knowledge of European texts, some knowledge of Islamic thought, the histories of previous crusades – depending on your character of course. A Greek-speaking Byzantine general or cleric might want to think about what Greek learning they might know (and other Latins might not).

2) While advancing an argument, students should anticipate and rebut the best argument of their likely critics. For example, if one is a peace-loving bishop against attacking Constantinople, it is not sufficient to define what a just war needs to have, but also that in this particular circumstance, the criteria are not met; a student should also explain why the arguments of the pro-attack side are wrong. Often students will cite the actual words of other student-players, and then illuminate deficiencies of fact, logic, or argument.

3) Keep the audience firmly in mind; students must connect with their listeners and readers. A factual solid and irrefutable argument may not prevail if one’s audience isn’t paying attention.

Writing

The purpose of written work is to complement class presentations: students write in order to win the game. Usually this means that a student’s writing will be an attempt to persuade people of his or her views.

Each student will need to make a formal speech twice during the game. A formal speech needs to have a pre-prepared script. If you develop a plan in advance with the professor, one of these speeches can take another form than a debate speech – it could be panegyric verse (in praise of someone) or a lengthy invective (in condemnation of someone).

Each student also needs to prepare notes in advance for one sub-argument of each debate. The first debate, “Do we attack Constantinople”, has three sub-questions – What is a just war, What is a Crusade, and How do we attack. At the beginning of the game, people in each faction will need to divide up these (and future) sub-questions and prepare briefing notes (sent to their faction members before class) arguing their position. These notes will be handed in as a whole at the end of the game to be marked (and thus can be revised from their initial form). Because the purpose of written work is to persuade other students, you notes need to be posted on your faction Teams channel at least 24 hours before the debate. Students must submit their work on time. A beautifully crafted explanation of Augustine’s notion of Just war does no good if war has already been declared.

The major assignment of the game will be a history of the debates (i.e. of our class discussions) in the form of a medieval chronicle. This assignment will seek to describe, explain, justify, or misrepresent the events of the game using the rhetorical style that a Latin, Greek or Arabic chronicler might use. Given that our game will only end at the end of term, this assignment will be due the first week of classes in January 2024.

Class Participation

Students’ class participation complements their writing; both are tools they must use to the best of their ability to win the game. Students will sometimes speak as a member of a particular team, or faction; sometimes alone; and sometimes they will have an indeterminate role and have the freedom to write some of their own game objectives in response to what they have read and heard. But in most roles, students must sooner or later seek to persuade others so as to achieve their objectives and win the game.

There is one constraint on a student’s oral performance: although students may refer to notes, reading aloud is unnecessary (the full and precise text of major presentations may be posted on a web site). As in the first half of this term, students will assess their participation (though at this time, according to a Reacting to the Past rubric).

Unless a student is “dead” or has somehow been silenced, students can participate freely in all oral discussions. Students whose roles make them responsible for running the class may determine who speaks and when. This may prove frustrating. As a means of ensuring that everyone has an opportunity to speak, the classroom may be provided with a podium or some other privileged space, at which anyone may stand. Anyone who approaches the podium asserts the right to give a speech, to pose questions, or to address the class. If someone is already at the podium, students may take a place in line behind him or her.

ROLES: SHIFTS, SECRECY, AND ROLE-PLAYING CONFUSION

In life, most people are assigned multiple roles. People “perform” as students, parents, spouses, employees, voters, etc., without being fully conscious of their goals, or, more precisely, without understanding how one role may affect our performance of another. (One example: bosses may script a role that requires a total commitment to work and offers abundant rewards for a good performance; yet sometimes this role may be rejected because our friends or family demand a different performance.) No one knows for certain his or her own ultimate goals; sometimes, in the course of demanding circumstances, a person learn things about him or herself that the person does not anticipate.

For this reason, and for some practical ones as well, students should not assume that their initial, printed “game objectives” are “permanent.” Opinions change, as do objectives. The fates (or the Gamemaster) may alter students’ objectives, perhaps informing them so by e-mail. Sometimes students will be enjoined to secrecy. Again, as in life, students should never assume that their knowledge is complete or perfect.

Other Players: “In” Role or “Out” of It?

Reacting games often acquire considerable intensity. Sometimes debates continue in dining halls and dorm rooms. Sometimes factions will meet on weekends. Sometimes roommates find themselves on opposing sides. Students should remind themselves that they and their “opponents” are performing roles and playing a game. When another player criticizes a student’s speech or argument, he or she is not criticizing the student as a person; this player is criticizing the role and ideas that have been assigned to the student. Nevertheless, players will often identify to some extent with their roles; once someone attacks their roles, they may perceive it as personal.

One way to help reinforce the point that “it’s all a game” is to be sure to identify yourself by your game role (and name), and, when addressing others, to call them by their Game Name. Consider the difference between the following: “Your argument, Laura, is ridiculous” versus “Your argument, Mr. Oligarch, is ridiculous.”

In some games, one’s Game Name is explicit: A student may be assigned the role of Thrasybulus in ancient Athens, Thomas Cromwell in Reformation England, or Nehru in India. Often, however, students will be a “generic” member of a faction. In that case, the Gamemaster may assign them a Game Name or suggest that they provide one of their own. When students cannot remember someone’s Game Name, they can usually think of a generic appellation: “Athenian,” or “Citizen” (revolutionary France), or “Professor.” When students post papers on a website, they must use their Game Name; insofar as their written work is graded not by the Gamemaster but by the Instructor, students should put their real name in parenthesis on copies that are to be graded.

Those students who are assigned roles where they preside over sessions should distribute name cards with each student’s Game Name. And the presiders should remind students not to refer to other players as “Laura” or “Bob.” Student leaders should politely interject: “I assume, fellow Athenian, that you are referring to Red-Headed Oligarch,” or “I assume, Mr. Azad, that you are referring to Mr. Nehru.”

Students should also use their Game Names when they are in game mode out of class. Say, for example, that a student in the dining hall spots an indeterminate in the French Revolution game and wants to persuade her to join the radical faction. That student might signal that she is in “game mode” by approaching the indeterminate in this way: “Hello, Citizen of France.”

Even when a student is talking to someone he or she knows well—perhaps even one’s roommate—the student should use Game Names whenever he or she is still in “game mode.” This repeatedly affirms that what transpires is not meant personally, and that one is only “playing a game.”

Students should never allow someone to confuse their game identity with their personal identity. If, for example, another player says: “Please vote with me on this issue. After all, I’m your friend / roommate / etc.,” the student should reply: “If we are in Ming China, you are not my roommate. You are a fellow academician and scholar.”

When a student makes a personal appeal—an appeal to the person one really is—he or she is not only violating the spirit of the game, but also unfairly transforming a game into something of a personal character. That is unwise and unfair. Again, the best reply is to insist on a clarification of identities. If the issue pertains to what is transpiring in a game, students should insist on being addressed by their Game Name; and refer to their fellow players by their Game Names. A fair appeal, outside of class, can be expressed as follows: “Citizen: please vote with me on this issue. The fate of Athens depends on it.” If the other player decides not to do so, then neither player will be likely to take it personally. Students should remember that what players say and do is part of their role, not an expression of their personal feelings. Remember, too, that bitter foes in one game will likely be staunch allies in the next.

Instructor versus Gamemaster

The instructor for this course has two somewhat different roles. On the one hand, he will grade a student’s oral and written work much like an instructor in other courses. During the introductory classes for each game, moreover, he will lecture or lead discussions in the conventional manner. But the instructor is also responsible for running games and advising students on matters of strategy and rhetoric. His or her main goal in running the games is to ensure, as best he or she can, that the game will be a fulfilling and historically credible experience. Thus, the instructor cannot disclose to a member of Faction A the strategy of someone in Faction B. Nor can he or she reveal some of the elements of game design that were hidden from the actual historical figures. The instructor is not being sneaky or duplicitous; he or she is enhancing the game—and a student’s experience. Part of the game experience is the unfolding of these elements.

So that students can distinguish between when the instructor is behaving in the conventional manner and when acting in proprietary fashion as Gamemaster, he or she may so identify him or herself. That is to say, when instructors identify themselves, in class or in e-mails as “Gamemaster,” they are functioning in that special role. When they identify themselves as “instructor,” they are acting as a “normal” teacher. If the instructor addresses the student by his or her Game Name (“Mr. De Lancey, I do not think that your speech about Thomas Paine is consistent with your goals.”), then the students know that the instructor is functioning as Gamemaster. If the instructor uses the student’s own name, he or she is probably functioning as Instructor. If students are not sure which hat the instructor is wearing, simply ask. Remember: An “Instructor” will be fully transparent; a Gamemaster must keep secrets from the student (and students should keep their secrets, if they disclose them to him or her, from OTHER factions).

DECORUM, LEADERSHIP AND TIME COMMITMENT

People are taught to be polite to and considerate of others. Such behavior is good and has been praised by moral philosophers (and parents) for millennia. A genial manner is also a wise rhetorical strategy: it helps win people over to one’s views; sarcasm, on the other hand, is dangerous because it often alienates undecided listeners. Sometimes, however, one will be obliged to disagree with others and muster up all possible rhetorical power to refute them. If a person is obliged to defend Socrates, can he or she smilingly let stand an argument that digs his grave?

Those students who are assigned leadership roles, or who are elected to them, will generally have a heavier workload. They may organize after-class strategy sessions for their faction, cajole dilatory essayists, and take the lead in class debates. But to equalize the burden, the Instructor will try to avoid having the leaders in one game repeat as leaders in subsequent games.

If students have a special activity during part of the semester that will restrict their time, they should advise the instructor before he or she distributes the roles. A student might be given a “lighter” role for that month. Sometimes the major roles—the central figures in any game—are not explicitly defined as leadership roles. Often students with seemingly “minor” roles emerge as the critical figures in the game—and in history.

APPENDIX: WRITING FOR REACTING

WRITING ADVISORY #1: ON STRUCTURE

Essential Preliminaries

Usually you write, or speak, because you have something to say. If you have nothing to say to readers, you cannot write well. Even great writers write poorly when they are uncertain of their message. In Reacting, your victory objectives spell out your purpose, and the major texts on which you base your opinion—for example, Plato’s Republic—explain what “you” believe. Your task is to frame a particular argument and make it persuasive. If, for example, your task is to show that Socrates is a scoundrel who should be punished for demeaning the gods of Athens, you must consider how to persuade the other students in the class to regard Socrates as “you” do.

How? To persuade others, you must first persuade yourself. Consider what arguments would persuade you that Socrates should be punished. Having sorted the matter in your own mind, you should reflect on your audience. If you wish to address indeterminates, find details about their historical character. (Indeterminates usually have considerable freedom to decide issues on their own, but they are obliged to reconcile their positions with their historical “persona.”) Consider your previous performances as well. Did an earlier class presentation or paper seem to “persuade” others? Ask others in the class, and the instructor, what worked and why. Above all, when you write, keep your audience firmly in mind.

Once you know what to say, and have a sense of your audience, your must find the best mode of expression to make your point. The essay form fits most rhetorical purposes; you cannot do well in Reacting, or in most other written assignments, without mastering it. But you may consider alternatives. Perhaps it makes sense to state your point as a hard-biting legal indictment: “I hereby charge Socrates with the following crimes. . . .” Or perhaps you may opt for poetry or a short story. But do not select a genre because of its novelty: poetry can be effective in many circumstances, but probably it is ill-adapted to the task of prosecution; and fiction may not be the best way to persuade readers that a real danger lurks around the corner. Humor is nearly always welcome, but it may not induce readers to take grave action. If you choose an unusual rhetorical form, you may wish to consult your instructor or preceptor for illustrative models.

For most purposes, the essay will prove most effective, persuasive, and adaptable mode of writing. But of what does the essay “structure” consist?

Many students are taught to write an essay according to the following structure:

• a1—A—a2; where, in the introduction (a1), you indicate concisely what you intend to say; then, in the body of your piece (A), you say it in extended fashion; and in the conclusion (a2), you remind the reader what you have said.

For example:

• a1: Socrates, we shall see, offends the gods

• Aa: Socrates offends the gods by criticizing their actions (evidence paragraphs 1-5);

• Ab: Socrates offends the gods by inventing alternative ones (evidence paragraphs 6-11);

• a2: Socrates, as we have seen, offends the gods!

Many well-meaning high school teachers, and even some college teachers, advocate this type of essay; but the structure is a poor one. It assumes that your reader cannot remember what he has read. If this be true, there is little point in writing anything. In addition to being redundant, the structure is inert: it takes the reader nowhere, thus inducing the laziness it presumes.

The 3-Part Essay Structure: Introduction/Argument/Conclusion

A better approach is to use the introduction to draw the reader into your argument, and a conclusion to suggest your argument’s broader relevance, as follows:

Intro—Argument—Conclusion; where, in the introduction (I), you set the mood or introduce the issues so as to prepare the reader to enter your argument; then you develop your points in the main body of the piece (Argument Aa, Ab, Ac, etc.). In the conclusion (C), you suggest the larger implications of your argument. Often the conclusion will allude to the introduction, suggesting symmetry and promoting closure. For example:

• Introduction: The gods control our destiny, and that of Athens;

• A1: Socrates offends the gods by criticizing their actions;

• A2: Socrates offends the gods by inventing new ones;

• Conclusion: Socrates endangers all Athens.

This structure, rather like the sonata form in music, can suit diverse rhetorical purposes. It imparts movement and direction to any argument. You will doubtless employ it, or some variant, in most of your work in college.

When you submit your essay, assuming it takes this “classic” form, be sure that it contains a real introduction (I) and a real conclusion (C), surrounding a body (A) in which you develop your main points. In your initial drafts, your instructor may ask you to place an I and a C next to these paragraphs (possibly your introduction and conclusion will require more than one paragraph), and an A [1 through x] for the others. If some paragraphs do not fit into your structure, revise it or discard them.

A clear structure sharpens your message and makes it more powerful. But sometimes you may have nothing to say, or you do not want to reveal your thoughts. In such instances, bad writing may be more effective than good writing. Assume, for example, that you have ended a relationship with a former friend. The friend responds with an anguished eight-page letter asking why you have broken up. Your truthful answer—that you now find that person tiresome or opinionated (etc.)—strikes you as unfeeling. You decide, therefore, to respond without saying the truth. Thus you unconsciously adopt a rhetorical structure best adapted to your purpose, namely to avoid stating clearly what you feel. You choose a rambling structure: perhaps you comment on your schedule this year, describe your dorm room, discuss the latest shooting somewhere in the nation. Eventually you meander to the weather, and comment on how it changes seasonally—as might friendships, such as yours with the reader. By the time you get to the point, your prose will have strewn so much confusion you do not need to make any point at all. Politicians do this a lot, as do people ensnared in litigation.

If you have nothing to say, or if you wish to confuse the reader and conceal your real purpose, you should employ a complicated, convoluted structure, or none at all. The reader will fail to follow your argument, grow bored, and give up. She may assume that you have actually said something, and blame herself for failing to figure it out.

But in Reacting, as in life, it is usually best to use words to say something. To that end, you need an effective structure.

More on Introductions

Assume that your reader’s mind is elsewhere; this assumption is likely to be true. You can hardly win the reader over to your point of view if you don’t have his attention. The introduction cited above assumes that your reader cares about the gods of Athens (“The gods control our destiny, and that of Athens.”) But what if your reader is agnostic, or what if he is preoccupied with other matters: a faltering relationship, a sick child, a maxed-out credit card? That is to say, what if your reader, like most people, is distracted?

You must reach out and seize hold of him. How to do this is very much a matter of the writer’s art. Try to anticipate your reader’s mindset, and then connect with it. Rather than plunge into your argument about Socrates and the gods, you might introduce your essay as follows:

1. “Each of us has known misfortune: The young woman (or young man) we adore spurns us. Our grapes, despite all due diligence, wither and die on the vine. Our baby becomes grievously ill. When we are in the throes of misery, we look up to the heavens, and ask: ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ In such moments, we acknowledge our powerlessness and dependence on the gods. Today, as we walked past the rubble of our once-proud walls and through an agora devoid of shops, stark evidence of the calamity that has befallen Athens, we similarly asked of the gods, ‘What did Athens do to deserve this?’ My fellow Athenians, I think I know. . .”

Here are some other illustrations of how you might reach out to readers in other games:

2. Perhaps in Ming China: “Fellow academicians: Our lives have been devoted to the words of the Master. We have studied for more exams than we care to recall. We have memorized hundreds of analects, etc., etc.. The Master’s mind was so fertile, and his words so numerous, that we must sort through passages that may appear to contradict themselves. . . .”

3. Or perhaps in revolutionary France: “We can hear the crowd of Paris outside these walls, calling for the death of traitors to the nation. Some of you may believe that such violence is repugnant, an affront to human decency; and some may hold that revolutionary violence is consistent with the moral principles of Rousseau. I contend that. . .”

Although a “grabber” introduction is especially suited to Reacting, it applies in most academic contexts as well. For a paper on literary theory, you would do well to also “grab” your reader (i.e., the professor who’s grading the paper) by reaching into her world:

4. “‘The Iliad’ is a story of humiliation and vengeance, set in ancient Troy as told by ancient Greeks. But for modern narratologists, who study the art of story-telling, the significance of any work is found not in its literal meaning, but in its constituent elements. Narratologists who adhere to the Russian Formalists will concentrate on. . .”

If the introduction has succeeded in reaching out to your reader, and your argument has held onto her tight, your conclusion should release her back into “her” world; it should show how your words have somehow changed her. Often it is wise in the conclusion to allude to the introduction, suggesting a structural coherence and closure. Conclusions for essays based on the previous “introductions” might go as follows:

A) “Before we leave the Pnyx today, and make our way home—past the crumbled walls and empty shopping stalls—let us resolve to make peace with the gods. . .”

B) “Other Confucian scholars may cite analects that suggest an explanation different from mine. But Confucianism must be conceived as an entire system, not just a collection of sayings. . .

C) “Ours is a turbulent time. Angry voices reverberate outside and shake our windows. And even here, within the National Assembly, our debates become raucous. But . . .”

D) “‘The Iliad’” can be interpreted in different ways, but Russian Formalism’s neglect of the historical context reveals a failing in that mode of literary analysis. This genre of analysis may not be entirely worthless, as some contend, but . . .”

Many writers, especially those who complete their written work a few days (hours / minutes / seconds) before the deadline, neglect the conclusion. This is a profound mistake. The last paragraph is the one that readers recall best. Devote special care and attention to it.

WRITING ADVISORY # 2: COHERENCE AND STRUCTURE

The first advisory considered your choice of writing genre (essay, poem, short story, etc.) and outlined the basic structure for a successful essay (Introduction, Argument, Conclusion). This advisory pertains to the structure of paragraphs, and the logical sequence of paragraphs within the essay. There are two points to recall. Each paragraph should convey a single idea and all of the sentences in that paragraph should advance that idea and no others. If any sentence does not advance the main idea of the paragraph, you must move or delete it. You must then check to ensure that the sequence of paragraphs/ideas proceeds logically. An outline, at least in rudimentary form, serves this purpose.

One warning: because teachers are sometimes unaccustomed to thinking of writing as instrumental—a means of advancing an argument—they often encourage students to regard an outline in terms of topics. This may be unwise for Reacting. You should write because you have something to say, not because you need to cover a topic. Therefore, the “idea” of each paragraph should not be summarized as a topical entry, but as a distillation of the idea of the paragraph. A topic encompasses a subject; an idea makes a point about a subject. The following illustrates a topical, and for our purposes, nearly useless, type of outline.

Topical-Style Outline

Paper argument: Socrates is guilty of offending the gods

SECTION II (ARGUMENT) . . .

Paragraph 2: His view in The Republic;

Paragraph 3: His attitude toward Gods;

Paragraph 4: Consequences of his attitude.

More useful, both in organizing your paper and checking its coherence, is an “idea-focused” outline, as follows:

Idea-Style Outline

SECTION II (ARGUMENT)

Paragraph 2: Socrates denounces existing gods (provide evidence from The Republic);

Paragraph 3: He invents new gods (provide evidence from The Republic);

Paragraph 4: This change confuses and angers the people of Athens;

Paragraph 5: People who are confused about the gods will do bad things, etc.

Much as your paragraph must not contain extraneous or unnecessary sentences, so, too, the sequence of your paragraph-ideas must follow logically. If a paragraph does not fit in the sequence, you should move or delete it.

WRITING ADVISORY # 3: LETHAL PREDICATES: NOT TO BE

Review Writing Advisories # 1 and 2: the points are simple, and for that reason readily slip from mind. This advisory concerns the sentence itself, particularly the predicate.

We learn the grammatical structure of the sentence at an early age. “Jack and Jill went up the hill.” Jack and Jill (subject) went(predicate). In English, the predicate engineers our grammatical logic; it literally energizes the subject.

But one verb—“to be”—does nothing and yet functions as a predicate, thereby shifting the “action” portion of the sentence onto parts of speech less qualified for that purpose. For example: “It was up the hill that Jack and Jill went.” The predicate (“was”) lacks force: without actually constituting a grammatical mistake, it violates grammatical logic. The predicate—was—must shoulder the work of the sentence, yet it lacks the clout to undertake this job.

All too often, we force weakling subjects like “it,” “this,” and “there” to do the heavy work of a sentence. For example, “There is one reason why Jack and Jill went up the hill: to fetch a pail of water.”

When editing your papers, look for sentences with forms of “to be” as the predicate; if their subject is “it” or “there,” the sentence probably suffers from a serious defect. This can easily be fixed: replace the dead verb with a lively one, and rearrange the sentence so that the subject initiates some real action.

Sometimes “to be” verbs are unavoidable; but usually a strong verb can take their place. (For example, re-write this sentence: “Sometimes it is hard for a writer who is dependent on ‘to be’ verbs to be expressive of prose which is precise and shows vitality.” One solution appears below.)

You should make lists of good verbs and consciously incorporate them into your writing. Tape the list to your computer monitor. Then, when you are stuck, look at the list.

(One solution for above: “Sometimes even good writers succumb to inactive verbs and the passive voice. We must embrace sharp, vital verbs.” Note active verbs: “succumb” and “embrace.”)

WRITING ADVISORY # 4: PEOPLE AND THINGS, PRONOUNS AND NOUNS

Verbs impart motion and direction to our language. Pronouns and nouns give it substance.

Referents

To whom does your pronoun refer? For example:

• “The British officials arrested Gandhi and his adherents. Their behavior was appalling.”

The “their” is in unclear referent, applicable either to the British officials or to Gandhi and his adherents. Most writers would spot this ambivalence. The problem of unclear referents becomes more subtle when the issues are more abstract:

• “Democracy in India is unstable. Its prospects are poor.” (“Its” could refer to either Democracy or India.)

You should regard all pronouns as suspect until you have proof-read them.

Things You Can See, Touch, Hear, Feel, Smell

The mind can more easily grasp ideas that relate to the senses. Conversely, ideas expressed in abstract language slip from memory. Abstract language is not always inappropriate. In law and government and philosophy, abstract language is often essential because it is meant to be generally (or universally) applicable. For example, the following is from Rousseau’s Social Contract (1762). Rousseau is attacking the notion that “might makes right.”

• “The strongest [person or party] being always in the right, the only thing that matters is to act so as to become the strongest. But what kind of right is that which perishes when force fails? If we must obey perforce, there is no need to obey because we ought.”

A brilliant stylist, Rousseau understood that these abstractions (“strongest,” “right,” “force”) do not carry much rhetorical clout. So he painted a picture:

• “A robber surprises me at the edge of a wood: must I not merely surrender my purse on compulsion; but, even if I could withhold it, am I in conscience bound to give it up? For certain the pistol he holds is also a power. Let us therefore admit that force does not create right.”

Now the abstractions have concrete references: “strongest” becomes a “robber”; and “force” becomes a “pistol.” The abstract becomes tangible. Nearly all important writers master the ability to express abstractions in concrete ways:

Plato’s Republic, the Analects of Confucius, the Bible—all have become influential in part because of their mastery of this principle.

In Reacting, you will often be asked to advance abstract principles—the merits of Athenian imperialism, the superiority of antiquity in Confucianism, the tripartite concept of the self in Freudian thought, and so on. But you must employ sharp, vivid language to explain and defend such notions (and their opposites).

The Power and Pitfalls of Simile and Metaphor

In response to this challenge, writers often compare that which is known with an unfamiliar concept or idea through the use of simile and metaphor.

Plato’s Socrates was a master of both. Perhaps his most famous simile compared the sun to an abstract principle, “the good.” The sun provided light and activated the most powerful senses, allowing people to see what actually existed; “the good” was the source of truth, which activated the mind’s quest for knowledge. Another was his justification of including women among the guardians of his utopia, as when he asked: “Ought female watchdogs to perform the same guard-duties as male, and watch and hunt and so on? Or ought they to stay home on the grounds that the bearing and rearing of their puppies incapacitates them from other duties?”

Among the many famous metaphors, Socrates makes a case for the limited use of deception among good rulers, as a “kind of medicine that should be entrusted to doctors and not to laymen.”

But if writers can often make good rhetorical use of metaphorical language, there is one danger: the imaginative language of the metaphor must not be inconsistent. For example, writers must not assert their desire to “calm the fires of anger” (extinguish fires or calm wild beasts) or to “undermine the airy suppositions” (undermine foundations or perhaps exorcise).

So, as a general principle, try to enrich your language with similes and metaphors, but check to make sure the images are internally consistent.

On Rules for Writers: A Final Note

Writing rules, like rules of musical composition, usually make the writing (and the music) better. But sometimes rules inhibit creativity and must be broken.

But you must be aware of the rules, and why you are breaking them, if you are to do so successfully.