NEUTERING

rhetoric

neutering exercises
[Spring 2000]

--"The Rights of Women" (neutered by Evanita D. Wallace-Lewis)

--"The Psalm of Life" (neutered by
Diana Julian)

--"The White Birds" (neutered by Sheri Reagan)

--The Gettysburg Address (neutered by Steve Ray)

--"Summer Near the River" (neutered by Annie Collins)

--"the Cambridge ladies"
(neutered by John Branscomb)

the triumph of substance
over style?
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NOTES: Many superb neuterings were carried out by the class (with profound apologies to all the fine writers, living and dead, whose poems, essays, and speeches
were so cruelly neutered):
these are
just a representative sample. Because even our vocabulary is inherently figurative, it's virtually impossible, of course,
to truly neuter (i.e., remove all figures of speech from) any text: that, in fact, has been the key lesson of this exercise.

So consider how six students responded to the
challenge: some by substituting
more contemporary language (including slang) for more traditional "poetic" language; others by replacing connotatively "charged" language with more (seemingly) neutral words. In all cases,
despite some gallant efforts
to the contrary, meanings have
been altered (sometimes dramatically) along with the
sounds and shapes of the language. The moral? Style and meaning, shape and substance, appearance and content--these are not distinct entities but interdependent, mutually defining qualities. In short, everything's got style--like it or not.

Evanita D. Wallace-Lewis Assignment: Neutered Passage
The Rights of Women By: Anna Laetitia Barbauld
Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right! Woman! too long degraded, scored, opprest; 0 born to rule in partial Law’s despite, Resume thy native empire o’er the breast! Go forth arrayed in panoply divine; That angel pureness which admits no stain; Go, bid proud Man his boasted rule resign, And kiss the golden sceptre of thy reign. Go, grid thyself with grace; collect thy store Of bright artillery glancing from afar, Soft melting tones thy thundering cannon’s roar, Blushes and fears thy magazine of war. Thy rights are empire; urge no meaner claim- Felt, not defined, and if debated, lost; Like sacred mysteries, which withheld from fame, .Shunning discussion, are revered the most. Try all the wit and art suggest to bend Of thy imperial foe the stubborn knee; Make treacherous man thy subject, not thy friend; Thou mayst command, but never canst be free. Awe the licentious, and restrain the rude; Soften the sullen, clear the cloudy brow. Be, more than princes’ gifts, thy favours sued- She hazards all, who will the least allow. But hope not, courted idol of mankind. On this proud eminence secure to stay; Subdoing and subdued, thou soon shalt find Thy coldness soften, and thy pride give way. Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought, Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move, In Nature’s school, by her soft maxims taught, That separate rights are lost in mutual love.	Hey, wounded woman, stand up for your rights! Woman! forever put down, talked about, forgetten; Born to live under part-time laws, Take and take control over the land! Go out dressed in ornate armor We are like pure virgins, stainless; Go tell the self-centered man his days are over, And he can kiss his reign goodbye. Go and prepare your soul, collect yourself Of shining strength hidden within; You have a melting voice but now explode, Smiles and fright are your weapons of war. Your rights come first, demand no less- Feelings, not felt, and if fought, forgotten; Like cherished moments, when withheld from glory, Not discussed, are the most remembered. Use all it takes- intelligence and talents Of your villian to bring him down; Make notorious man your mission, not your fiend; You can rule, but never be truly free. Amaze the unbeliever, and shut up the impolite; Help the helpless, make the path evident: Be, more than tokens, an armpiece- She is dangerous, who will tolerate her. But do not fear, the pursued prize of all. On this proud day sure to come. Held back and held down, you all will know Your attitude will change, your pride disappear. Then, then, leave your self-contained mind, Control or power will leave your heart, In life’s school, her lessons learned, That separate rights are forgotten in true love.


The Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow	Neutered by DIANA JULIAN
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.	Don't tell me a bunch of times that life is pointless because a person who just chills is lame so don't judge a book by its cover Life exists? Life is Strenuous? and being buried in dirt isn't its aim; You can dust, but damn, the dust is just going to return but hey, you ain't returning Not amusement, and not sadness is our fate but dealing with stuff now we find ourselves progressing Art is lengthy, and time is flying by and our hearts are filled with courage and stuff their beats are decreasing on the way to the grave. In the rugby field of competition In the campsite of life don't be a follower Be Superman Don't have confidence in the future you fabricate Don’t dwell in the past Exist in the now Heart in the carcass you call a body, and God upstairs The existence of kool dude remind us We can make our lives first-rate And, when we cut out, we leave behind us Footnotes in history books Footnotes that perhaps a college student looking at the bottom of the page a confused and lost student Seeing, shall comprehend Everyone, get off your butt and be active with the tolerance for any kind of crap; Still accomplishing, still seeking Learn to work, and be patient.

Sheri Reagan
Neutering Assignment

The White Birds

Innocent Ones
(my regrets to W.B. Yeats)

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I Would we were changed to white bird on the wandering foam: I and I

I am haunted by numberless islands, an a many Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!

--William Butler Yeats

I wish, my love, that we were innocent ones on a sandy
        beach!
Instead, we are bored by the sight of a shooting star before
        it dies;
And the light of evening stars alert us, dearie, of a sadness
        that just won't die.

Made tired by dreams of death and its symbols like the lily
        and the rose;
But don't dream of them (the flowers), and not shooting
        stars or evening skies:
Because I wish we were made into the innocent ones
        floating upon the aimless sea: that's it-just you and me!

And I constantly think about the infinite islands and sandy
shores
Where Time stands still, and Sadness dies;
Where we would be far from death and worries of Heaven.
Yeah, if only we were the innocent ones, sweetheart, anchored out at sea!

--Sheri Reagan

Steve Ray

The Gettysburg Address

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that the nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we would do this.

But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate-we cannot consecrate- we cannot hallow- that ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us- that from these honored dead we may take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln--Nov. 19, 1863

The Speech at Gettysburg

Eighty-seven year ago those who came before we did brought to this country, a new idea, based on freedom, and believed in the idea that all men are the same.

Now we are in a big civil war, seeing if that nation, or any government so thought of and worked for can live. We are met on a big battlefield of that war. We have to give a piece of the ground, as a grave for those who died so their nation would live. It is right that we do this.

In a bigger picture, we cannot give- we cannot devote- we cannot bless- that ground. The brave men, living and dead, who hurt here, have devoted it, far above our poor ability to give or take. The world will not recall, or remember, what I say here, but the world can not forget what the dead soldiers did here. It is for the living, instead, to work for the goal they fought hard for here. It is instead for us to work at the tough job coming up and that from the remembered dead we take more pride to the reason that they died for- that we here strongly believe that these dead didn't die for nothing- that this nation, below God, will have a new start for freedom- and that the idea of a government of the people, run by the people, and for the people of the country, will not die.

Annie Collins

SUMMER NEAR THE RIVER
by. Carolyn Kiser

In My Own Way
(apologizing to Carolyn Kizer)

I have carried my pillow to the windowsill
And try to sleep, with my damp arms crossed upon it
But no breeze stirs the tepid morning.
Only I stir . . . Come, tease me a little!
With such cold passion, so little teasing play,
How long can we endure our life together?

No use. I put on your long dressing-gown;
The untied sash trails over the dusty floor.
I kneel by the window, prop up your shaving mirror
And pluck my eyebrows.
I don't care if the robe slides open
Revealing a crescent of a belly, a tan thigh.
I can accuse the non-existent breeze ...

I am as monogamous as the North Star
But I don't want you to know it. You'd only take advantage.
While you are as fickle as spring sunlight.
All right, sleep ! The cat means more to you than I.
I can rouge you, but then you swagger out.
I glimpse you from the window, striding towards the
river.

When you return, reeking of fish and beer,
There is salt dew in your hair. Where have you been?
Your clothes weren't that wrinkled hours ago, when you
left.
You couldn't have loved someone else, after loving me!
I sulk and sigh, dawdling by the window.
Later when you hold me in your arms
It seems, for a moment, the river ceases flowing.

I walked to the window with my pillow
I tried to sleep, with my arms wet from tears atop the pillow
But there is no breeze outside this spring morning.
I am the only thing moving . . . come and be near me!
We have so little passion, so little physical touch,
How long can we manage to stay together?

It's no use. I go and put on your bathrobe;
The sash, not tied, touches the dirty floor.
I kneel near the window, and put your shaving mirror
next to me
And pluck my eyebrows.
I don't care if the robe opens
And my stomach shows, or my tan thigh.
I can say it the breeze, not blowing, made it happen . . .

I am as alone as the one North Star
But I am not going to tell you that.
You would take advantage of me.
You are as moody as the sun in spring.
Fine, sleep! You care more about the cat than me.
I could wake you; no there you go walking out.
I can see you from the window, walking to the river.

When you come back to the house, you smell like fish and beer
There is salt water in you hair. Where did you go?
Your clothes were not so dirty when you left.
Surely you could not love anyone after saying you love me.
I pout and sigh, and stay near the window.
Later, you hug me in your arms
And it seems like, for a second, everything stops.

John Branscomb

e. e. cummings
"the Cambridge ladies"

My Way
(with apologies to e. e. cummings)

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things--
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
. . .. the Cambridge ladies do not care, above Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

the Cambridge ladies whose souls are filled with the       ideas and beliefs of others
are shallow and readily let society and tradition do their        thinking for them
(they have, with the approval of the Protestant church
daughters, who are also hollow and complacent)
they have great esteem for Christ and Longfellow, who        are both deceased,
are always fashionably involved in a variety of                 concerns--
currently one discovers their
pleased fingers knitting charity items possibly for the         Poles?
they are uncertain. While well entrenched upper class         faces gossip
about the scandal of some married woman and a             professor
. . .   the Cambridge ladies do not give a damn, if            outside
Cambridge in the box
they have attempted to confine those different from           them in, the
forces of change refuse to be trapped and rebel

English 5730 is taught by Dr. Richard Nordquist.
Armstrong Atlantic State University
Savannah, Georgia 31419
912/921 5991

08 January 2003