The whole reason that grammatical and linguistic conventions exist is so writing and speech are clear and easily understood. They are so integral to the language that you weren't even taught most of these conventions when it comes to talking—you picked them up naturally in the course of learning how to speak.
For instance, it's common to contract the words I am into I'm, as in I'm cuter than my sister Jane.
But does this sound right?: Jane is not as cute as I'm.
Of course it doesn't. But why? Other sentences can end in a contraction—I did it at the beginning of this line.
I'm sure your answer to this question didn't go into the nuances of enclitic contractions and syntactic construction.¹ You most likely said something along the lines of "It just sounds wrong." Fluent speakers don't need formal training in every grammatical rule to be able to speak well. We are able to pick up on proper patterns of speaking based on what we hear. Writing conventions are a little harder, as punctuation doesn't come across in speech, but written punctuation still follows predictable patterns in how we speak aloud. Following all the grammar rules for optimal clarity is called lexical purism, and a good deal of your English education has been devoted to mastering these rules.
For instance, it's common to contract the words I am into I'm, as in I'm cuter than my sister Jane.
But does this sound right?: Jane is not as cute as I'm.
Of course it doesn't. But why? Other sentences can end in a contraction—I did it at the beginning of this line.
I'm sure your answer to this question didn't go into the nuances of enclitic contractions and syntactic construction.¹ You most likely said something along the lines of "It just sounds wrong." Fluent speakers don't need formal training in every grammatical rule to be able to speak well. We are able to pick up on proper patterns of speaking based on what we hear. Writing conventions are a little harder, as punctuation doesn't come across in speech, but written punctuation still follows predictable patterns in how we speak aloud. Following all the grammar rules for optimal clarity is called lexical purism, and a good deal of your English education has been devoted to mastering these rules.
But rules can—and should—--be broken.
The problem with lexical purism is that it keeps language from evolving. Following every writing rule to the literal letter leaves no room for experimentation or lexical innovation, the practice of creating words and patterns of speech. To keep English alive, we need to create new words, use existing words in new ways, and fill the lacunas (semantic gaps) in our language with neologisms, which are new words brought into common use. These words occasionally come from loan words brought in from other languages, but they are mostly coined because writers were playing around with existing language. To create such words, we can't be careful and follow the rules—we need to be creative, crafty, and just a bit crazy with our language.
We do this naturally when we talk—speech is messy and full of unneeded pauses, fragments, sudden shifts in thought, and misspeaking. This is usually not a problem, as others can hear our intonation and generally figure out what we are trying to communicate. Put that into writing, though, and things get very unclear very fast. You didn't take all those years of English classes for nothing, remember. Thus, there needs to be a middle ground where we can break the rules of writing without sacrificing clarity.
This middle ground is solecism, the art of intentionally breaking grammatical conventions for literary effect. And yes, there is an irony here that solecistic figures of speech are actually rules created to break other rules, but again, this is done for clarity. If we just break every grammar rule willy-nilly, then sence maken't the does awholelotta [wr]iting we'o.
Instead of thinking of solecism as throwing away the rulebook, think of it as ordering off the secret menu at a restaurant: others may think you are doing something radical, but you're really just accessing little-known knowledge. What follows are some solid ways to subvert grammatical conventions in ways that are interesting but still clear.
We do this naturally when we talk—speech is messy and full of unneeded pauses, fragments, sudden shifts in thought, and misspeaking. This is usually not a problem, as others can hear our intonation and generally figure out what we are trying to communicate. Put that into writing, though, and things get very unclear very fast. You didn't take all those years of English classes for nothing, remember. Thus, there needs to be a middle ground where we can break the rules of writing without sacrificing clarity.
This middle ground is solecism, the art of intentionally breaking grammatical conventions for literary effect. And yes, there is an irony here that solecistic figures of speech are actually rules created to break other rules, but again, this is done for clarity. If we just break every grammar rule willy-nilly, then sence maken't the does awholelotta [wr]iting we'o.
Instead of thinking of solecism as throwing away the rulebook, think of it as ordering off the secret menu at a restaurant: others may think you are doing something radical, but you're really just accessing little-known knowledge. What follows are some solid ways to subvert grammatical conventions in ways that are interesting but still clear.
Upcycled: Old words used in new ways
It's important to use the right word. But what if the right word doesn't exist (or worse, is boring)?
A common way to create a new word is to take two or more words and just jam them together. This is a portmanteau, and many common words are the result of portmanteaus made long ago: motel [mobile + hotel], brunch [breakfast + lunch], labradoodle [labrador retriever + poodle], cosplay [costume + roleplay], motorcycle [motorized + bicycle], and goodbye [God + be + with + ye]. With the exception of goodbye (which was originally Godbye), all the portmanteaus retain the letters and order of the original words—if letters that aren't in either origin word are added (e.g., kind + to = kinda), this is not a portmanteau but an allegro, which will be explained later.
You could also just use an existing word and turn it into the part of speech you need using anthimeria. Want to say that time in Mr. Coon's class went by as slow as a snail moves? The time snailed in Coon's class. Want to say you spent the entire day spending time with your cousins? Sorry, I was cousining all day. Want to compare your friend's overreaction to Nicolas Cage's "exquisite" acting? He gave a Cage-esque yell.
Instead of using an old word in a new way, you could always just use an even older word. If you want my character to sound out of touch because they're stuck in the past, you could throw in some archaisms, which are words and phrases that are considered outdated. Middle English pronouns like ye, thee, thou, and thine and nouns like yestreen (last night), circumjacent (around), grimalkin (cat), camelopard (giraffe), and love apple (tomato) can spice up writing for an audience that isn't used to those words—just be careful that you use the words properly as they were when popular and have a logical reason for their inclusion.
A common way to create a new word is to take two or more words and just jam them together. This is a portmanteau, and many common words are the result of portmanteaus made long ago: motel [mobile + hotel], brunch [breakfast + lunch], labradoodle [labrador retriever + poodle], cosplay [costume + roleplay], motorcycle [motorized + bicycle], and goodbye [God + be + with + ye]. With the exception of goodbye (which was originally Godbye), all the portmanteaus retain the letters and order of the original words—if letters that aren't in either origin word are added (e.g., kind + to = kinda), this is not a portmanteau but an allegro, which will be explained later.
You could also just use an existing word and turn it into the part of speech you need using anthimeria. Want to say that time in Mr. Coon's class went by as slow as a snail moves? The time snailed in Coon's class. Want to say you spent the entire day spending time with your cousins? Sorry, I was cousining all day. Want to compare your friend's overreaction to Nicolas Cage's "exquisite" acting? He gave a Cage-esque yell.
Instead of using an old word in a new way, you could always just use an even older word. If you want my character to sound out of touch because they're stuck in the past, you could throw in some archaisms, which are words and phrases that are considered outdated. Middle English pronouns like ye, thee, thou, and thine and nouns like yestreen (last night), circumjacent (around), grimalkin (cat), camelopard (giraffe), and love apple (tomato) can spice up writing for an audience that isn't used to those words—just be careful that you use the words properly as they were when popular and have a logical reason for their inclusion.
"This book must be out of date: I don't see 'Prussia,' 'Siam,' or 'autogyro.'" (Disney/Fox)
Very Extra: Creating new phrases
What if one word isn't quite enough for what I want to convey?
One fun way to make a new word is to make it out of multiple words. This way, you can pack in more description. One method is by creating a kenning, a short two-word description that replaces a common noun to add action and imagery to a sentence. Instead of psychiatrist, I can say that I went to my head shrinker. Instead of an accountant, I can say that The bean-counter said I can't afford a boat. Instead of an avalanche, I can say:
One fun way to make a new word is to make it out of multiple words. This way, you can pack in more description. One method is by creating a kenning, a short two-word description that replaces a common noun to add action and imagery to a sentence. Instead of psychiatrist, I can say that I went to my head shrinker. Instead of an accountant, I can say that The bean-counter said I can't afford a boat. Instead of an avalanche, I can say:
The white death buried them all—no one could escape the snow and storm.
Look again at the above example. The kenning makes since, but shouldn't the speaker say snowy storm? If we were following all the rules of grammar, then yes. But we're breaking rules today, and that transformation of a noun and a modifier into two nouns linked with a coordinating conjunction is called hendiadys. Like a kenning, hendiadys doesn't just add words but imagery too: in He endured pain and suffering (instead of painful suffering) and Megan liked to toy with her boyfriend, so dating her resulted in peril and pleasure. (instead of the perilous pleasure), the hendiadys makes the trials these subjects face feel bigger and more expansive.²
But what's better than two words? That's right—three words. Hendiatris is the same as hendiadys but replaces the noun with three descriptive nouns rather than just two. Here are three examples of hendiatris: He wants wine, women, and song (instead of celebration); She wouldn't cheat in any way, shape, or form (instead of manner); and Superman fights for truth, justice, and the American way (instead of good). Like hendiadys, three verbs (Glen would miss the snap, dash, and tackle of the weekly game) and three adjectives (Fat, drunk, and stupid are no way to go through life, son) can also replace a noun.
We can even add words inside of other words. Tmesis is a fan-freaking-tastic use of perissologia to show that your character means what in the actual hell they said. Tmesis splits a word at the syllables and inserts an interjection inside of it to show emotional emphasis. If the split word would be un-bloody-recognizable as two separate words, then you abso-damn-lutely need hyphens connecting all the pieces. However, if the broken word turns into two other actual words (like when Romeo tells Friar Lawrence that he is "some other where"), the becomes a whole nother matter and hyphens are not needed.
But what's better than two words? That's right—three words. Hendiatris is the same as hendiadys but replaces the noun with three descriptive nouns rather than just two. Here are three examples of hendiatris: He wants wine, women, and song (instead of celebration); She wouldn't cheat in any way, shape, or form (instead of manner); and Superman fights for truth, justice, and the American way (instead of good). Like hendiadys, three verbs (Glen would miss the snap, dash, and tackle of the weekly game) and three adjectives (Fat, drunk, and stupid are no way to go through life, son) can also replace a noun.
We can even add words inside of other words. Tmesis is a fan-freaking-tastic use of perissologia to show that your character means what in the actual hell they said. Tmesis splits a word at the syllables and inserts an interjection inside of it to show emotional emphasis. If the split word would be un-bloody-recognizable as two separate words, then you abso-damn-lutely need hyphens connecting all the pieces. However, if the broken word turns into two other actual words (like when Romeo tells Friar Lawrence that he is "some other where"), the becomes a whole nother matter and hyphens are not needed.
"No looking at pictures of loved ones! No angry grumbling under your breath!" (Disney/Fox)
Chopped: Elision and shortening words
Portmanteaus, anthimeria, hendiadys, and kennings are all about addition... but what about subtraction?
Writers do have the ability to create new words by taking away the parts of old ones. We actually do this all the time in everyday speech: shorter versions of words or even entirely new words form when we drop unneeded syllables from a word in a process called elision. Sometimes known as clipping or ellipsis, elision has three main varieties: apheresis (also called procope), apocope, and syncope.
Through apheresis, the first syllables of a word are dropped—this is how telephone became phone, hamburger became burger, and website became site. Through apocope, the last syllables of the word are dropped—this is how photograph became photo, animation became anime, and gymnasium became gym. Some words are even truncated at both ends thanks to both apheresis and apocope—this is how refrigerator became fridge, influenza became flu, and Elizabeth became Liz. This is sometimes referred to as hypheresis.
Instead of leaving just the middle of a word, could we cut out the middle of a word? For that, you'd need a type of elision called syncope where letters are dropped out of the word and replaced by an apostrophe. With syncope, you can get comf'table on the couch with the fam'ly before going to the lib'ry to study. You can also drop letters off the beginnings and ends of words, and this is syncope too.³ For example, when Uncle Rondel tells us that he "wants t'go fishin' with 'em 'cause it's fun," he's actually syncopated seven different words.
Wait... seven words? The example only has five apostrophes.
Let's count: fishing was shortened to fishin', them was shortened to 'em, and because was shortened to 'cause—that's three. Additionally, to go was shortened into t'go and it is was shortened to it's. Syncope can turn multiple words into a single semantic unit called a contraction. A contraction can pull together two words (does not), three words (of the clock), and even four words (you all could have) and, by inserting an apostrophe where letters (but not spaces) have been dropped, create new semantic units like doesn't, o'clock, and y'all'd've.⁴
Writers do have the ability to create new words by taking away the parts of old ones. We actually do this all the time in everyday speech: shorter versions of words or even entirely new words form when we drop unneeded syllables from a word in a process called elision. Sometimes known as clipping or ellipsis, elision has three main varieties: apheresis (also called procope), apocope, and syncope.
Through apheresis, the first syllables of a word are dropped—this is how telephone became phone, hamburger became burger, and website became site. Through apocope, the last syllables of the word are dropped—this is how photograph became photo, animation became anime, and gymnasium became gym. Some words are even truncated at both ends thanks to both apheresis and apocope—this is how refrigerator became fridge, influenza became flu, and Elizabeth became Liz. This is sometimes referred to as hypheresis.
Instead of leaving just the middle of a word, could we cut out the middle of a word? For that, you'd need a type of elision called syncope where letters are dropped out of the word and replaced by an apostrophe. With syncope, you can get comf'table on the couch with the fam'ly before going to the lib'ry to study. You can also drop letters off the beginnings and ends of words, and this is syncope too.³ For example, when Uncle Rondel tells us that he "wants t'go fishin' with 'em 'cause it's fun," he's actually syncopated seven different words.
Wait... seven words? The example only has five apostrophes.
Let's count: fishing was shortened to fishin', them was shortened to 'em, and because was shortened to 'cause—that's three. Additionally, to go was shortened into t'go and it is was shortened to it's. Syncope can turn multiple words into a single semantic unit called a contraction. A contraction can pull together two words (does not), three words (of the clock), and even four words (you all could have) and, by inserting an apostrophe where letters (but not spaces) have been dropped, create new semantic units like doesn't, o'clock, and y'all'd've.⁴
Obvi Ridic: Blantant mispelling and mistakes
Pop quiz: is whatcha a contraction too?
Whatcha takes three words and puts them into one word (what are/do/did/have you), so it seems like it should be a contraction. But there are no apostrophes. And none of those words has the letter C. And none of the letters in you are in the word at all. The same problems can also be found in lemme (let me), kinda (kind of), gotta (got to), gonna (going to), hafta (have to), lotsa (lots of), and gimme (give me).
These words are, in fact, not contractions but an example of allegro, which are words that are intentionally and obviously spelled incorrectly or unconventionally to resemble the way that people pronounce the word in verbal speech. Sometimes called eye spelling, allegro is an important part of informal slang language (or its portmanteau slanguage) but not all slang is allegro. Take the colloquialisms fam (short for family), sus (short for suspicious), obvi (short for obvious), and ridic (short for ridiculous) are all just apocopic elisions. But rizz (short for charisma) and coz (short for cousin) are allegro because neither origin word has a Z in it.⁵
Whatcha takes three words and puts them into one word (what are/do/did/have you), so it seems like it should be a contraction. But there are no apostrophes. And none of those words has the letter C. And none of the letters in you are in the word at all. The same problems can also be found in lemme (let me), kinda (kind of), gotta (got to), gonna (going to), hafta (have to), lotsa (lots of), and gimme (give me).
These words are, in fact, not contractions but an example of allegro, which are words that are intentionally and obviously spelled incorrectly or unconventionally to resemble the way that people pronounce the word in verbal speech. Sometimes called eye spelling, allegro is an important part of informal slang language (or its portmanteau slanguage) but not all slang is allegro. Take the colloquialisms fam (short for family), sus (short for suspicious), obvi (short for obvious), and ridic (short for ridiculous) are all just apocopic elisions. But rizz (short for charisma) and coz (short for cousin) are allegro because neither origin word has a Z in it.⁵
Words don't even need to be shortened to be allegro—take this example:
Yer momma done sayed she gonna go git us all a taught and stringy
trampoleen so ya can do yer acromatic practiss at home.
trampoleen so ya can do yer acromatic practiss at home.
That sentence doesn't have a single shortened word but has several unconventional spellings: yer/your, sayed/said, git/get, trampoline/trampoleen, and practice/practiss. Ironically, some allegro words that are in frequent use like whatcha and wanna eventually get a "correct" spelling in some dictionaries. Words with multiple accepted spellings, like mama and momma, also aren't allegro.
Spelling isn't the only incorrect thing about that sentence:
Spelling isn't the only incorrect thing about that sentence:
- The sentence uses me instead of I: the switching of one word for another with the incorrect case, gender, mood, number, tense, or person is called alleotheta. Alleothea specifically uses the wrong verb (enallage), like how was should be is the sentence We was robbed, or the wrong pronoun (antiptosis), as in the example sentence.
- The two words describing the trampoline are not the right words: taught (as in educated) should be taut (as in tight), and stringy (as in threadbare) should be springy (as in elastic). Using a similar-sounding word or phrase in place of the word one actually wants to use is a malapropism. Named for the literary character Mrs. Malaprop, these are sometimes called Yogisms or Bushisms after two men who frequently used malapropisms, baseball legend Yogi Berra ("I hear Texas has a lot of electrical votes") and former President George W. Bush ("They have miscalculated me as a leader").
- The sentence also uses acromatic instead of the word acrobatic, but this isn't a malpropism. Malapropisms switch out one real word for another real word (like if the speaker used aromatic), but acromatic is not a word at all. Instead, it is an eggcorn, a substitution of a correct word or phrase for what the speaker misheard but believes is the correct word or phrase. Eggcorns are often used comedically to show the confusion or ignorance of a character.
"I'm learnding!" (Disney/Fox)
Yapping: Using too many words
Can breaking the rules go beyond just playing with words?
Every type of solecism so far has looked specifically at experimenting with writer's diction, or word choice. However, writers can also break the rules of syntax, or sentence order and construction. Syntactic solecism takes a bit more writing finesse than dictive solecism because it's easier to inhibit clarity and make breaking rules look like making mistakes when working with whole sentences. Conversely, when done really well, syntactic solecism can almost be invisible and create meaning without distracting readers.
One way to make syntactic solecism invisible is to weave it in with dictive solecism. Let's return to this sentence from the last section:
Every type of solecism so far has looked specifically at experimenting with writer's diction, or word choice. However, writers can also break the rules of syntax, or sentence order and construction. Syntactic solecism takes a bit more writing finesse than dictive solecism because it's easier to inhibit clarity and make breaking rules look like making mistakes when working with whole sentences. Conversely, when done really well, syntactic solecism can almost be invisible and create meaning without distracting readers.
One way to make syntactic solecism invisible is to weave it in with dictive solecism. Let's return to this sentence from the last section:
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Yer momma done sayed she gonna go git us all a taught and stringy trampoleen so ya can do yer acromatic practiss at home.
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Look at the two words in red—they are completely unneeded. Done is redundant with the past tense sayed [said]. All is redundant with the collective pronoun us.
Adding redundant words for emphasis is called pleonasm. Pleonisms can be glaringly incorrect (I ain't got no sugar!) or more subtly excessive (It was a black inky darkness—darkness by definition is black, and black is synonymous with inky).
A special kind of pleonasm is polysyndeton, where a writer adds more conjunctions than necessary to a sentence, which gives the sentence a feel of droning informality.⁶ Here's an example from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye:
Adding redundant words for emphasis is called pleonasm. Pleonisms can be glaringly incorrect (I ain't got no sugar!) or more subtly excessive (It was a black inky darkness—darkness by definition is black, and black is synonymous with inky).
A special kind of pleonasm is polysyndeton, where a writer adds more conjunctions than necessary to a sentence, which gives the sentence a feel of droning informality.⁶ Here's an example from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye:
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"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."
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Some would call this sentence a run-on, where a novice writer has fused together too many clauses into one sentence. But for a skilled writer who wants to break the rules, this is perissologia (or verbosity or loquacity or garrulousness or logorrhea or prolixity or sesquipedalianism), which is using many more words than needed to convey emotional tone. Here, Holden's rambling narration gives him a tone of ennui and gives the reader a sense that he is saying his words defensively off the cuff. Perissologia breaks the rules because written grammar is traditionally meant to be succinct as opposed to the rambling nature of real speech. Perissologia also works with other emotions—if my terrified babysitter character gets out of the house before the man in the clown mask gets her, I can show how scared she is by her babbling, "I am just so very deeply honestly glad to escape!"
Hits Different: Creating a double meaning
If my character just keeps yapping, won't they give every surprise away?
There is a special type of perissologia called circumlocution, which literally means "talking around" in Latin. Circumlocution is the intentional addition of ambiguity to writing, which is typically a writing no-no because ambiguity is the opposite of clarity. However, there are lots of reasons why a writer would want to add ambiguity to their writing: to create mystery and suspense, to make characters seem suspicious, to keep from offending others, to get around censorship, and to make readers think more about the text. While most methods of creating ambiguity--understatement, euphemism, innuendo—involve figures of thought, some figures of speech can also be used to intentionally create ambiguity. These figures of speech fall under the category of amphiboly.
Litotes create a conflict of meaning by presenting a double negative statement: She is not unattractive, I can't disagree with that logic, and I'm not as adventurous as I used to be all convey a different statement than merely using the affirmative answer. She is not unattractive says that the she in question is not unattractive but implies that she is also not attractive either—otherwise, the speaker would just say she is attractive. Likewise, I can't disagree with that logic implies that the speaker wants to disagree while I agree does not, and I'm not as adventurous as I used to be conveys that the speaker once was adventurous while I'm unadventurous does not.
If litotes results in an inverse meaning, zeugma creates a dual level of meaning. Zeugma, which is Greek for "yoking together," takes one polysemous verb and connects it to two words through different meanings. Here are some examples:
This last example is also another type of amphiboly (ambiguity caused by grammar) called a garden-path sentence, where a sentence that's grammatically correct is designed so the reader's initial interpretation will be incorrect. The reader sees The only thing she had on and assumes what follows will be an article of clothing, but surprise! There is literally no clothing involved in the sentence. Here's another garden-path sentence that still uses ambiguity but not zeugma: The old man the boat. The reader initially reads The old man and assumes it is the subject of the sentence, but when nothing else remains in the sentence but an object (the boat), the reader must reread the sentence. When they do this, they will realize that man is not a noun but a verb (as in "to operate"), and those that are manning the boat are the old. Three more examples of garden-path sentences are Fat people eat accumulates, The cotton clothing is made of grows in Mississippi, and Red tape is holding up the new bridge.
Perhaps the most complex type of amphiboly occurs when an entire clause can have a double meaning due to specific phrasing and punctuation. A sign saying Medical services here—you won't get better creates ambiguity on whether the patient won't get better service or won't heal. Wanted: chair for a person with a wooden leg is not clear whether the person or chair has a wooden leg. This is called Level 4 zeugma according to writer Samuel Johnson but is also known as paronomastic zeugma, or what happens when zeugma and a pun are mixed.
There is one caveat to all amphiboly: it must make grammatical sense. He cried his eyes and his heart out: no, a heart can't cry out. She saw the thunder and lightning: no, she can't see the thunder. When you come to the party, bring your boyfriend and a dish to share: no, your boyfriend shouldn't be... well, you get the point. These constructions aren't zeugma or garden-path sentences but syllepsis, or speech that can be understood logically but is confusing syntactically.
There is a special type of perissologia called circumlocution, which literally means "talking around" in Latin. Circumlocution is the intentional addition of ambiguity to writing, which is typically a writing no-no because ambiguity is the opposite of clarity. However, there are lots of reasons why a writer would want to add ambiguity to their writing: to create mystery and suspense, to make characters seem suspicious, to keep from offending others, to get around censorship, and to make readers think more about the text. While most methods of creating ambiguity--understatement, euphemism, innuendo—involve figures of thought, some figures of speech can also be used to intentionally create ambiguity. These figures of speech fall under the category of amphiboly.
Litotes create a conflict of meaning by presenting a double negative statement: She is not unattractive, I can't disagree with that logic, and I'm not as adventurous as I used to be all convey a different statement than merely using the affirmative answer. She is not unattractive says that the she in question is not unattractive but implies that she is also not attractive either—otherwise, the speaker would just say she is attractive. Likewise, I can't disagree with that logic implies that the speaker wants to disagree while I agree does not, and I'm not as adventurous as I used to be conveys that the speaker once was adventurous while I'm unadventurous does not.
If litotes results in an inverse meaning, zeugma creates a dual level of meaning. Zeugma, which is Greek for "yoking together," takes one polysemous verb and connects it to two words through different meanings. Here are some examples:
- The farmers in the valley grew wheat, sorghum, and restless: wheat and sorghum use one meaning of grew (cultivated a plant), and restless uses a different meaning (increased in size); when the verb comes before both its yoked nouns like in this sentence, it's called prozeugma
- When the final whistle blew, dust covered the players, but so did glory: dust uses a physical meaning of covered (coated), and glory uses a metaphoric meaning (enveloped); when the verb between its yoked nouns like in this sentence, it's called synzeugma
- At the philosopher's beauty salon, both your hair and your mind will get blown: hair uses a literal meaning of blown (moved by air), and mind uses a figurative meaning (amazed); when the verb comes after both its yoked nouns like in this sentence, it's called hypozeugma
- The only thing she had on was the radio: radio uses one meaning of had on (active) while... actually, the second word is implied to be some type of clothing (socks, a sweater, an inflatable dinosaur costume) using the definition of "wearing" for had on, but the second word isn't actually there; this is a rare type of zeugmatic construction called hemizeugma
This last example is also another type of amphiboly (ambiguity caused by grammar) called a garden-path sentence, where a sentence that's grammatically correct is designed so the reader's initial interpretation will be incorrect. The reader sees The only thing she had on and assumes what follows will be an article of clothing, but surprise! There is literally no clothing involved in the sentence. Here's another garden-path sentence that still uses ambiguity but not zeugma: The old man the boat. The reader initially reads The old man and assumes it is the subject of the sentence, but when nothing else remains in the sentence but an object (the boat), the reader must reread the sentence. When they do this, they will realize that man is not a noun but a verb (as in "to operate"), and those that are manning the boat are the old. Three more examples of garden-path sentences are Fat people eat accumulates, The cotton clothing is made of grows in Mississippi, and Red tape is holding up the new bridge.
Perhaps the most complex type of amphiboly occurs when an entire clause can have a double meaning due to specific phrasing and punctuation. A sign saying Medical services here—you won't get better creates ambiguity on whether the patient won't get better service or won't heal. Wanted: chair for a person with a wooden leg is not clear whether the person or chair has a wooden leg. This is called Level 4 zeugma according to writer Samuel Johnson but is also known as paronomastic zeugma, or what happens when zeugma and a pun are mixed.
There is one caveat to all amphiboly: it must make grammatical sense. He cried his eyes and his heart out: no, a heart can't cry out. She saw the thunder and lightning: no, she can't see the thunder. When you come to the party, bring your boyfriend and a dish to share: no, your boyfriend shouldn't be... well, you get the point. These constructions aren't zeugma or garden-path sentences but syllepsis, or speech that can be understood logically but is confusing syntactically.
Messy: Switching around the syntax
How else can we break the rules of sentence construction other than by adding more words?
You can move the words around. Anastrophe is the inversion of the usual word order effect. When Sam Spade calls the Maltese falcon "The stuff that dreams are made of" and Yoda growls, "Use the force, you must," they are changing up the proper word order (Dreams are made of the stuff, You must use the force) to put emphasize on a different element of the idea. We use anastrophe every day in forming yes-or-no questions--Are you ready to go? is just a rearranged version of You are ready to go—but anastrophe is also common when writing in verse so as to end the line with the right rhyme or meter. Just moving modifiers, however, isn't anastrophe since modifiers are moved around all the time—you must disrupt the normal subject-verb-object order.
You can also just move around syllables between words. A spoonerism switches the first sounds of two words in the sentence to form an entirely different phrase. Spoonerisms happen when you hiss your mystery class (miss your history class) because you lent to the whybrary (went to the library) to play cards with your friends, but you suffer a blushing crow (crushing blow) when you put down the whore of farts (four of hearts). Getting these phrases bassackward (a spoonerism credited to Abraham Lincoln himself) can show that a speaker is foolish, rushed, or shy in front of others. Some spoonerisms can even reveal ironic character trait, like when you encounter two wild cowgirl siblings that love sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and they are introduced as sin twisters instead of twin sisters.
You can move the words around. Anastrophe is the inversion of the usual word order effect. When Sam Spade calls the Maltese falcon "The stuff that dreams are made of" and Yoda growls, "Use the force, you must," they are changing up the proper word order (Dreams are made of the stuff, You must use the force) to put emphasize on a different element of the idea. We use anastrophe every day in forming yes-or-no questions--Are you ready to go? is just a rearranged version of You are ready to go—but anastrophe is also common when writing in verse so as to end the line with the right rhyme or meter. Just moving modifiers, however, isn't anastrophe since modifiers are moved around all the time—you must disrupt the normal subject-verb-object order.
You can also just move around syllables between words. A spoonerism switches the first sounds of two words in the sentence to form an entirely different phrase. Spoonerisms happen when you hiss your mystery class (miss your history class) because you lent to the whybrary (went to the library) to play cards with your friends, but you suffer a blushing crow (crushing blow) when you put down the whore of farts (four of hearts). Getting these phrases bassackward (a spoonerism credited to Abraham Lincoln himself) can show that a speaker is foolish, rushed, or shy in front of others. Some spoonerisms can even reveal ironic character trait, like when you encounter two wild cowgirl siblings that love sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and they are introduced as sin twisters instead of twin sisters.
Will this be another article where all the visual examples are from The Simpsons? (Disney/Fox)
Besides mixing up words, you can also subtract words. Asyndeton, for instance, is dropping needed conjunctions out of a sentence for emphasis. Julius Caesar's famous address to Rome declaring that "I came, I saw, I conquered" uses asyndeton, as well as Abraham Lincoln's address to Gettysburg where he promises that "government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth." Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton, and like polysyndeton, it ensures all the ideas have equal emphasis (extra in the case of asyndeton, less in the case of polysyndeton).
We can also subtract entire clauses and leave sentences incomplete if we have a good reason. There's aposiopesis, where a speaker goes silent midsentence as indicated by an ellipsis point. This is sometimes called "trailing off:" I don't know what to say... It was a beautiful day then... Now, if a speaker is interrupted instead of choosing to stop talking on their own, that's anapodoton and uses a dash: Do they think that I'm just-- Sometimes, a speaker interrupts themselves, and the anapodoton is followed by a brand new idea: Do they think that I'm just—Oh, they have no idea who they're messing with. This sudden and illogical change in topics is called anacoluthon.
So how much can be cut from a sentence or a paragraph?
We can also subtract entire clauses and leave sentences incomplete if we have a good reason. There's aposiopesis, where a speaker goes silent midsentence as indicated by an ellipsis point. This is sometimes called "trailing off:" I don't know what to say... It was a beautiful day then... Now, if a speaker is interrupted instead of choosing to stop talking on their own, that's anapodoton and uses a dash: Do they think that I'm just-- Sometimes, a speaker interrupts themselves, and the anapodoton is followed by a brand new idea: Do they think that I'm just—Oh, they have no idea who they're messing with. This sudden and illogical change in topics is called anacoluthon.
So how much can be cut from a sentence or a paragraph?
Everything.
Okay, not everything. But close to everything.
See what I did there?
You can eliminate all but one word as long as the meaning is clear (here, I was answering a question). This is holophrasis, or cutting everything in a sentence down to a single word that carries the weight of a complete thought. While holophrasis isn't considered proper in formal writing, it has become a regular part of narrative storytelling. Another modern solecistic construction is staccato, where a period is placed after every word for emphasis.
That's right. Every. Single. Word.
You can eliminate all but one word as long as the meaning is clear (here, I was answering a question). This is holophrasis, or cutting everything in a sentence down to a single word that carries the weight of a complete thought. While holophrasis isn't considered proper in formal writing, it has become a regular part of narrative storytelling. Another modern solecistic construction is staccato, where a period is placed after every word for emphasis.
That's right. Every. Single. Word.
Yes. Yes, it will be. (20th Century Fox)
Nope: Catachresis and cacography
So breaking rules can be okay, but how do we know when we've gone too far?
As we've seen, solecism is complex and involves breaking rules in just the right way. These literary devices are necessary to the continued development of language, according to theorist Jacques Derrida. Derrida believed that solecism tests the limits of language, violating conventions to the degree that they could become conventions themselves.
Yet not every experiment in rule breaking is successful. Derrida used the term catachresis, for grammatical substitutions that don't really work. It's like writing I want a peace of pie. There is no clever intention or irony at work here—there's no humor in the malapropism attempted. This is just an error. The key to knowing if you've gone too far with breaking the rules is if the writing is unclear or seems obviously wrong.
But what if everyone uses peace instead of piece?
If enough people make the same common error, the error becomes accepted use in the same way that litotes, portmanteaus, and holophrasis became accepted loopholes in our laws of language. But for every neologism that enters the Merriam-Webster dictionary, there are dozens of nonce words—coined for a single occasion and then left to die out. Lasting linguistic change happens when it makes language clear. Anything else is just cacography—this literally means "bad writing." Rules may be meant to be broken, but they need to be broken with discretion.
As we've seen, solecism is complex and involves breaking rules in just the right way. These literary devices are necessary to the continued development of language, according to theorist Jacques Derrida. Derrida believed that solecism tests the limits of language, violating conventions to the degree that they could become conventions themselves.
Yet not every experiment in rule breaking is successful. Derrida used the term catachresis, for grammatical substitutions that don't really work. It's like writing I want a peace of pie. There is no clever intention or irony at work here—there's no humor in the malapropism attempted. This is just an error. The key to knowing if you've gone too far with breaking the rules is if the writing is unclear or seems obviously wrong.
But what if everyone uses peace instead of piece?
If enough people make the same common error, the error becomes accepted use in the same way that litotes, portmanteaus, and holophrasis became accepted loopholes in our laws of language. But for every neologism that enters the Merriam-Webster dictionary, there are dozens of nonce words—coined for a single occasion and then left to die out. Lasting linguistic change happens when it makes language clear. Anything else is just cacography—this literally means "bad writing." Rules may be meant to be broken, but they need to be broken with discretion.
Footnotes
1 For my hardcore grammar nerds that were wondering, yes, there's a rule: you can't end a sentence in enclitic contractions (ones where the first word is a pronoun and the second is a model verb, as in I'm, it's, he'll, and they've) but you can use a non-enclitic contraction (ones where the first word isn't a pronoun or the second word isn't a model verb, as in didn't, might've, o'clock, or y'all).
2 Hendiadys is a type of anthimeria (mentioned earlier, turning one part of speech into another) and isn't just limited to changing an adjective-noun into noun and noun: a noun can become a verb and verb (The mix and bake should only take twenty minutes) or an adjective and adjective (He finally made it through the rough and tough). However, the replacement of a noun is key: He was nice and warm and She told him to come and get it are not hendiadys, as the words function according to the proper use of adjectives and verbs, respectively.
3 Linguists still debate on whether dropping letters and not full syllables off the start and end of words should be considered syncope or apheresis and apocope, respectively. However, most modern English linguists believe that the difference between apheresis, apocope, and syncope comes down to syllables and punctuation. Removing full syllables is obvi legit apheresis or apocope. This is even true if the full syllable is just a single vowel, like mend from amend or spy from espy (though this has a specific name: aphesis). However, it's syncope if 1) less than an entire syllable is removed (like in 'twas or frien'), or 2) an apostrophe is required to differentiate the elision from a previously existing word. An example of case two is dropping the first syllable of because: this can't be apostrophe-less apheresis since cause is already a word, so 'cause needs to be differentiated with an apostrophe, and the word becomes syncope.
4 Notice the term "semantic unit" in the previous paragraph. Unlike anthimeria and apocope, contractions derived from syncope rarely become a new word in their own right, even if the word becomes frequently used. This is due to the fact that most contractions still function as two different parts of speech and thus cannot be one word. However, it's not impossible for syncope to create a new word if both words use the same part of speech and the apostrophe gets dropped--this is how Hallowe'en (short for All Hollow's Evening) became Halloween.
5 The most extreme case of allegro is the creation of a ghoti, a word that is so misspelled that its enunciation is unclear. Why ghoti? This word isn't pronounced "GAH-tee" or "GOH-tee"—it's pronounced as "fish." How? It uses the /f/ sound from enough, the /i/ sound from women, and the /sh/ sound from nation. Allegro in writing can be great, but don't make a ghoti.
6 A very popular use of polysyndeton comes when a writer uses a coordinating conjunction at the start of a sentence. The grammatical rule of syndeton requires that coordinating conjunctions must combine two or more syntactic units of equal stature in meaning and construction, so starting a clause with a coordinating conjunction where the clause is combined with nothing is formally incorrect. Yet we frequently employ coordinating conjunctions at the start of our sentences in real-world speech. So while a writer should avoid starting a sentence with a coordinating conjunction in formal writing, polysyndeton is the loophole that makes it fine for casual writing. And that's a fact.
1 For my hardcore grammar nerds that were wondering, yes, there's a rule: you can't end a sentence in enclitic contractions (ones where the first word is a pronoun and the second is a model verb, as in I'm, it's, he'll, and they've) but you can use a non-enclitic contraction (ones where the first word isn't a pronoun or the second word isn't a model verb, as in didn't, might've, o'clock, or y'all).
2 Hendiadys is a type of anthimeria (mentioned earlier, turning one part of speech into another) and isn't just limited to changing an adjective-noun into noun and noun: a noun can become a verb and verb (The mix and bake should only take twenty minutes) or an adjective and adjective (He finally made it through the rough and tough). However, the replacement of a noun is key: He was nice and warm and She told him to come and get it are not hendiadys, as the words function according to the proper use of adjectives and verbs, respectively.
3 Linguists still debate on whether dropping letters and not full syllables off the start and end of words should be considered syncope or apheresis and apocope, respectively. However, most modern English linguists believe that the difference between apheresis, apocope, and syncope comes down to syllables and punctuation. Removing full syllables is obvi legit apheresis or apocope. This is even true if the full syllable is just a single vowel, like mend from amend or spy from espy (though this has a specific name: aphesis). However, it's syncope if 1) less than an entire syllable is removed (like in 'twas or frien'), or 2) an apostrophe is required to differentiate the elision from a previously existing word. An example of case two is dropping the first syllable of because: this can't be apostrophe-less apheresis since cause is already a word, so 'cause needs to be differentiated with an apostrophe, and the word becomes syncope.
4 Notice the term "semantic unit" in the previous paragraph. Unlike anthimeria and apocope, contractions derived from syncope rarely become a new word in their own right, even if the word becomes frequently used. This is due to the fact that most contractions still function as two different parts of speech and thus cannot be one word. However, it's not impossible for syncope to create a new word if both words use the same part of speech and the apostrophe gets dropped--this is how Hallowe'en (short for All Hollow's Evening) became Halloween.
5 The most extreme case of allegro is the creation of a ghoti, a word that is so misspelled that its enunciation is unclear. Why ghoti? This word isn't pronounced "GAH-tee" or "GOH-tee"—it's pronounced as "fish." How? It uses the /f/ sound from enough, the /i/ sound from women, and the /sh/ sound from nation. Allegro in writing can be great, but don't make a ghoti.
6 A very popular use of polysyndeton comes when a writer uses a coordinating conjunction at the start of a sentence. The grammatical rule of syndeton requires that coordinating conjunctions must combine two or more syntactic units of equal stature in meaning and construction, so starting a clause with a coordinating conjunction where the clause is combined with nothing is formally incorrect. Yet we frequently employ coordinating conjunctions at the start of our sentences in real-world speech. So while a writer should avoid starting a sentence with a coordinating conjunction in formal writing, polysyndeton is the loophole that makes it fine for casual writing. And that's a fact.