So I recently had a debate with my girlfriend. I forget exactly what we were talking about, but it led her to say, "I hate science."
Hate science? Hate the subject that undergirds our technological progress? The subject that saves so many lives? The subject that makes sense of the observable phenomena of the universe? I don't understand how anyone can hate any one subject in itself, unless what it does is absolutely reprehensible. While many dubious advances have been made under the umbra of science, science's overall virtue is unquestioned.
So I stammered. "Hate science? It's only the subject that keeps everything going."
Then a misunderstanding started. She wanted to insist that she was justified for hating the subject, because she's always been terrible at it, in a family where her brother and her father both excel in it. The resulting disappointed expectations crushed her.
"Okay," I said. "So you hate doing it then."
This is partly what she meant, and she acknowledged it. But we went in circles for a while longer, because she wanted to insist that she was justified in hating it, and was in some disbelief that I would insist on making such a paltry division between hating a subject and hating doing it. She didn't say this, but she must've thought that the metonomy ought to hold between the two. She likes reading some science articles. She just hates "science" the academic subject, and by that she means doing it.
I, however, insisted that she could still love a subject, even if she couldn't do it well.
At one point she asked me, "Haven't you ever failed at something so many times that you just had to hate it?" I paused for nearly half a minute, trying to think, and then admitted, "I can't recall failing that hard before." I really couldn't. Oh, I've failed at doing things. But I've generally figured them out. If not, it's been sufficiently unimportant that I could just respect it from afar.
Eventually we settled down, but it got me to thinking. Why was I insisting so hard on this seemingly arbitrary distinction? Was I being an ass? Was I being Aristotle?
I think there is something to the distinction. I also think I have a little bit of a chip on my shoulder, because it's a distinction not a lot of people make. It's also a distinction that enables me to like and enjoy so many things I otherwise wouldn't.
So, to break it down Aristotelian style, there are at least four categories of preference for an object, if one can either: (a) like it or not like it; (b) like doing it or not like doing it.
I could:
1. Like it and like doing it.
2. Like it and hate doing it.
3. Hate it and like doing it.
4. Hate it and hate doing it.
I ignore all the cases where I would be neutral in one or the other case, since I don't think those are significant enough for an impromptu musing. So, they are named. What can go under them?
What are some examples of the above?
1. This would be the ideal profession or pursuit. This can be a hobby too. For me, this is any number of things, but most importantly to my personal choices, it is English literature. I like it, I like reading it, and I like writing about it.
2. Sometimes this can be the necessary burden. Other times, this is the subject we respect from afar, the thing where, if we meet someone at a party that does it, we go, "Oh," and are appropriately impressed. This would be science in my girlfriend's case. In mine... I've never liked doing exercise much, but I do value it in itself.
3. In many cases this is a sin or a transgression that we nonetheless like doing. Oftentimes this has to do with defying our own restrictions (like eating a cake while fasting), or the restrictions of society (stealing, in the case of a repentant kleptomaniac). Sometimes this leads into other distinctions; if I hate mowing the grass before I start, but like mowing it once I've started, then I've hated the idea of it but liked doing it.
4. This would be the thing that is generally loathed.
I've run out of steam, but I think this distinction is important to consider. There are others, like the distinctions between science, mowing the grass, and murder. But, sloppy as it is, it's a start.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 13, 2010
Teaching Introductions: The Inverted Pyramid
As I've been reading over the first major writing assignment, I'm realizing something. Well, after I wrote that sentence, two things.
A. People often write their most horrible sentences because they think it fits a proper form.
B. People have trouble with choosing an appropriate scale of generality/specificity in the introduction.
The two are related. In many high schools, students learn how to write an introduction by using an inverted pyramid: they progress from an observation of general interest towards a particular point, the thesis statement. It is rigid, and only sometimes works outside of the expository essay genre. But it can be used well, if the initial appeal and the progression are both appropriate fits for the audience involved.
But it is difficult to measure such scale for a student who has only learned one way to introduce their formal writing, and who has furthermore not had enough experience in writing. In those cases, the feeling for fitting generality and audience is off. In an informative paper about how Google functions, the first sentence will describe how the internet functions. In an analytical paper studying the way gender is used in briefs on internet policy and privacy, the first sentence will allude to the simpler time of the 80s. Also, in an effort to supply the right beginning, outright errors will present themselves, like the well-known cop-out, "Since the beginning of time..."
No.
What it took me a long time to learn about the inverted paragraph structure, and what directly helped me with the scale problem, was that even the first sentence is focused. It is intentional. It refers to categories I'll later be using. There's got to be a hook and some logic that's relevant and accessible to my audience. Summarily, it has to have the context of both the reader and the rest of the paper to really be written effectively. With all that in mind, it should be one of the last, if not the last sentence written.
Subsequently, I now know that there are a variety of ways of starting a paper. Sometimes, starting with some topical facts or an anecdote can be more useful. Sometimes, starting with the thesis statement itself is a good move. After a while it's easy to know what to use based on the genre and audience. Sometimes I still write an introduction in a couple of different styles, just to see which way works best.
I've periodically left days open to work on these things in the schedule. Looks like this will be one of the sessions.
Can one impart all of this in an hour's time? No. But I think that the key here is experimentation. Flex the writing. Have a few forms in mind, and try them out to see which best accomplishes an introduction to the paper for the intended audience. This should be the most naturally sounding part of a paper; yet, to be a good one, it often takes the most work. My approach will be some combination of explaining the forms, studying bad examples, and modeling good habits in revision.
A. People often write their most horrible sentences because they think it fits a proper form.
B. People have trouble with choosing an appropriate scale of generality/specificity in the introduction.
The two are related. In many high schools, students learn how to write an introduction by using an inverted pyramid: they progress from an observation of general interest towards a particular point, the thesis statement. It is rigid, and only sometimes works outside of the expository essay genre. But it can be used well, if the initial appeal and the progression are both appropriate fits for the audience involved.
But it is difficult to measure such scale for a student who has only learned one way to introduce their formal writing, and who has furthermore not had enough experience in writing. In those cases, the feeling for fitting generality and audience is off. In an informative paper about how Google functions, the first sentence will describe how the internet functions. In an analytical paper studying the way gender is used in briefs on internet policy and privacy, the first sentence will allude to the simpler time of the 80s. Also, in an effort to supply the right beginning, outright errors will present themselves, like the well-known cop-out, "Since the beginning of time..."
No.
What it took me a long time to learn about the inverted paragraph structure, and what directly helped me with the scale problem, was that even the first sentence is focused. It is intentional. It refers to categories I'll later be using. There's got to be a hook and some logic that's relevant and accessible to my audience. Summarily, it has to have the context of both the reader and the rest of the paper to really be written effectively. With all that in mind, it should be one of the last, if not the last sentence written.
Subsequently, I now know that there are a variety of ways of starting a paper. Sometimes, starting with some topical facts or an anecdote can be more useful. Sometimes, starting with the thesis statement itself is a good move. After a while it's easy to know what to use based on the genre and audience. Sometimes I still write an introduction in a couple of different styles, just to see which way works best.
I've periodically left days open to work on these things in the schedule. Looks like this will be one of the sessions.
Can one impart all of this in an hour's time? No. But I think that the key here is experimentation. Flex the writing. Have a few forms in mind, and try them out to see which best accomplishes an introduction to the paper for the intended audience. This should be the most naturally sounding part of a paper; yet, to be a good one, it often takes the most work. My approach will be some combination of explaining the forms, studying bad examples, and modeling good habits in revision.
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