Every five years or so I reread The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. and E. B. White.  Nicknamed “the little book” and published by Professor Strunk in 1919, the original version was 43 pages of advice on the rules of rhetoric.  Mr. White, who had been a student of Prof. Strunk’s at Cornell University, later wrote an essay called “Will Strunk” for The New Yorker (1957); The Macmillan Company ended up rereleasing “the little book,” printing Mr. White’s essay as an introduction.

As Mr. White writes, The Elements of Style is an “attempt to cut the vast tangle of English rhetoric down to size and write its rules and principles on the head of a pin.” There are chapters on rules of usage, principles of composition, form, misused words and expressions, and style, all written in a no-nonsense, Yankee tone with a little dry humor thrown in.  It should be required reading for any writer.

My copy is tatty and stained, circa 1959, bought long ago in a forgotten used bookstore.  The name K. Andrew Berk is written in Bic pen on the flyleaf.

Come to think of it: where is my Elements of Style?  I remember putting it aside on my work table several weeks ago, the table behind my computer desk which holds scratch paper, three dictionaries, a thesaurus, and my New York Public Library Guide to Style and Usage.  There it is!  Under my Weight Watchers weekly pamphlets and Points Plus Pocket Guide!

I. Elementary Rules of Usage

Form the possessive singular of nouns by . . .

“Bye, Honey, have a nice day,” I yell as my husband heads out the door early this Monday morning.  “Marlyn, make me proud.  Be a leader!” I say to my daughter as I put down The Elements of Style and rush to load the dishwasher, throw a load of clothes in the washing machine, peep at the cat box, and make sure the front door is locked before heading back upstairs.

What’s that banging I hear?  Is a storm coming as wind rushes through the house – we opened the windows for the first time last night – or is the cat stuck in Marlyn’s room again?   I walk to the bedroom, throw open the door, and sure enough: out steps Cat #1, Mio.  Lord, what a mess I think as I close the door, reminding myself to tell Marlyn to clean up her room when she gets home plus not to forget to write her birthday thank yous.

Back to Strunk and White.  But darn.  What have I done with my pen?

Two exceptions to the semicolon rule are. . .

A flock of squawking birds fly by – perhaps I should shut the window, less distracting, but the air smells spring-sweet and I can hear the breeze rustle and hopeful birds calling one another.  Someone is chatting out on the road.  Maybe it’s a solicitor who needs to be admonished! Why, looky, looky, there are orange cones in the cul de sac.  Perhaps a pipe has burst!  Maybe someone is doing construction!

II. Elementary Principles of Composition

Prof. Strunk has a pale moustached face and wears wire rims.  He gazes at me kindly whereas I see Mr. White’s lips are pursed, eyebrows raised.  He is sitting in front of a shiny black typewriter with his favorite Dachshund, Minnie, perched alongside.  Both are staring at me with a great deal of disappointment, the same stare an owl gives you: steely-eyed and judgmental.

My back is stiff so I stand up and stretch and, oh, now I have to run downstairs and throw the clothes in the dryer, but making sure to pull out all the ladies’ delicates and my new white blouse so I don’t shrink them; I can’t leave the clothes in a balled up mess on the downstairs sink so I go back upstairs to hang everything one by one in the hall bathroom; it takes me awhile to find enough hangers.  I hear Cat # 2 crying; his name is Oscar.  He wants to go outside, again, so back down I go to let him out, and then, oops, I had better check the cats’ water bowl so I weave through the kitchen.  Wait, I don’t eat enough fruit so I gobble a banana, put the cereal away – I’m coming, Prof. Strunk and Mr. White,  I’m coming, I promise – but not before a quick glance out the back window at my treasured Prairie Rose Crabapple which is blooming in all its deep pink splendor.

III.  A Few Matters of Form

I sit back down, lukewarm cup of coffee alongside and no, I will not go back downstairs to heat it up.  Now, Cat #1, Mio, appears at the end of my reading chair and he has a sad face: he wants to get in my lap so I let him though this means I must now take notes with my pad at a slant and read the book in the air.  I hear the mailman – I recognize the soft whir of the truck – YOU ARE NOT GOING OUTSIDE TO GET THE MAIL I tell myself.  I’m on page 18, but I’m getting a little nervous because some of the Before sentences and paragraphs don’t sound so bad to me, the ones where the egregious writing is pointed out and the author gives an example of better sentence construction.  On page 20 Prof. Strunk and Mr. White cite E.M. Forster and I feel a little resentful.  I can’t write like E.M. Forster and believe me, I really wish I could claim Passage to India or A Room with a View.  Truth is I can’t.  Instead, I have penned two novels, massively rejected by all, so they are now resting in peace in the attic; another is being read by agents and editors though still no takers.

Cut me a break, Prof. Strunk and Mr. White.  I’m doing the best I can!  Isn’t there a place in the world for a writer like me?  I don’t want to write for the trashcan – I need an audience.  I don’t care about The Muse or Fulfillment.  I WRITE FOR MONEY.  Does this make me a bad person?  Unworthy?  A wordsmithing woman of the night?

The word or group of words entitled to this position of prominence is usually the logical predicate. .  .

Huh?

I’m hungry.  The blueberry scone followed by the banana happened a long time ago.  Is it too early for lunch?  Mio, now you want to go outside?  Well, okay, Boodaboo.

The phone rings and it’s my brother.  I have to talk to him so I can invite him for Easter; my sister-in- law will bring the pie.  The phone rings again.  It’s Dan’s Shoe Repair calling to say my sandals are ready.  And there goes the dryer buzzer.  Oh, my.  Well, that can wait.  Now, I hear more conversation outside and this time it’s several people talking – just a quick peek out the window.   It’s a Chem Dry Truck: the neighbors are having their carpets cleaned.  “Hey, come over here!”  I want to yell out.  “We have plenty of pet stains and coffee spills!”  Three official looking men in blue shirts and khaki pants are standing across the street and after watching one ring the doorbell and have a chat, I return to my chair. A few moments pass, I am trying to read about commonly misused expressions I swear, however, I hear a huge rumble and sucking sound; now that I can’t resist so I peer out and see a giant pipe snaking in the house.  It sounds like someone has let the air out of a balloon and it’s making rather rude noises, the same sounds made by the monsters in the movies my husband loves to watch.

The Chem Truck.  Fascinating.  Who knew?  Except what happened to the quiet spring morn?  The one with the dappled light playing across my office wall, the curtains billowing like dancers to and fro, the lacy fan of the budding maple trees out my window?  The one where I was to read The Elements of Style, undisturbed, committing to memory all those truths so I could improve my sentence construction?  Mio returns to my study – he wants to get back in my lap.  The Chem Truck is leaving.

(Time passes.)

Due to the fact it is 5:30, I’d better get going.  I can’t hardly believe where the day has gone.  I shall get in the car and drive over to lacrosse to pick up my daughter of which she is a manager.

In honor of The Elements of Style, still one of the best handbooks on grammar and usage ever written.